


The Arrangement

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Forbidden Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Reichenbach Feels, Sibling Incest, Teenlock, Voyeurism, figuring it out, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:09:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28662258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: “Too much history between us, John. Old scores, resentments.” - Mycroft Holmes
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Holmescest Works [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 82
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts), [magic1034](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magic1034/gifts).



> I wanted to try out a different interpretation of Mycroft. And explore the brothers' relationship as troubled as it is in canon. 
> 
> We will go through teenlock to the end of TFP. I've been pretty ill the last week or so, so this has been a nice distraction while I am holed up at home. I know I have tons of WIP, but I will get to them eventually. 
> 
> There is a bit of Mycroft/OMC in here, but I will leave that up to your judgement.

Downstairs, a gaolbird coos the hour. 

Upstairs, the flat’s lone occupant has an urge to rip out the mechanical heart of the marvel from Triberg, Deutschland. It is a Christmas present from a foundation of rekindled love. Sure to be snuffed out once again when his landlady realizes that Mr Chatterjee has no plans to leave his recently acquired wife. 

The bird’s calls fade, leaving Sherlock in silence once more. 

He stares out of his favourite window into the darkness that is Baker Street at midnight. He stands for he cannot sit. Not in his new armchair of leather and sparkling steel – it still feels too foreign despite months of trying to break it in. Nor does he want to look at the homey seat across from it. Holmes and Watson may share residence once more, but never again will they be as they were at the beginning. 

Too much history between them.

It’s December twenty-six. A seemingly innocuous day. John had left for Tenerife with his latest bird, leaving Rosie with Harry in the morning. 

> “Will you be alright, alone?” John asked cautiously as Sherlock brooded in front of the same window much earlier in the day. 
> 
> A half-hearted shrug. “Alone is a state I am rather fond of.”
> 
> “You should apologize to Molly.” 
> 
> Sherlock curled his lip slightly when John had said that. It’s been an item of contention between them ever since Sherrinford. He had apologized to her. For playing the cruel trick that he had been manipulated into doing. But – no – she had to make a big fuss out of it. Insisting that Sherlock had said those three words because there had been some ounce of truth within them. She had kept poking and prodding as if Sherlock had been one of her cadavers on the autopsy table, and there had only been so much he had been willing to take. Or could take. He remembers his words – how coldly they had fallen from his lips. Like someone stabbing another with surgical steel, pulling it out and pushing it back in with each word spoken. 
>
>> “I do not love you. I will never love you. The sooner you get that through your thick head, the better it would be for the both of us.” 
> 
> Molly had slapped him and stormed off. 
> 
> Sherlock hadn’t seen her since. John had stopped bugging him about reconciling with her until she had refused his invitation to partake in their Baker Street Christmas party a few weeks back.
> 
> “I will not. I only spoke the truth. I’ve tried letting her down gently. It’s never worked.”
> 
> “Sherlock, how could you know if you’ve never tried? What is wrong with Molly anyways? She puts up with you! She’s seen you at your worst. She will forgive you if you reach out! You are capable of love, Sherlock –”
> 
> “No, John. Just. Go.” Sherlock gestured weakly at the door. 
> 
> “I am just saying that you don’t have to be alone at this time of –”
> 
> “Alone is what I wish I had!” Sherlock almost growled – it took him all his self-control to rein in the wounded creature within him. From speaking something that would only lead to no good. “John. I will be fine. Let me be.”
> 
> “Fine.” 
> 
> John stomped off. Annoyed. Taking his luggage with him as he left for Heathrow. 
> 
> Sherlock shook his head. Wondering why the good doctor still thought he knew what was best for Sherlock after everything that had happened in his own life. But then he reminded himself that it’s a good thing that John only sees what he sees and not more. 
> 
> After all this time, John had no idea about Sherlock’s deepest and darkest secret. And the significance behind this time of the year. 

Sherlock isn’t expecting anything. 

However, he’s still up, knowing that sleep will remain elusive. 

Mycroft has left London for a funeral. A funeral for a man who Sherlock does not know personally, but despises all the same. A man that Mycroft had spent a copious amount of time with again with this year, knowing that his death draws near. 

_ Yet it doesn’t matter. _ Sherlock tells himself.  _ Whether Mycroft calls or texts. _

If it happens, this will be the last time. This farce cannot continue like this, year after year. With every year that it happens, he feels that more of him is withering away. 

Dying. 

But Sherlock doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to end this. 

Drugs had been far easier to quit. 

He walks over to the fireplace and fishes out one of the fags that a client had left in the Persian slipper on the mantelpiece. He had quit after Sherrinford, but this is a special occasion. 

He lights it. Brings it to his lips. The sweet sweet kiss of nicotine. Momentary bliss. 

He exhales, coughing. 

God, it feels good. It’s not the first time he’s wondered why everything that has ever felt good for him came with such a high price tag. 

Opening the window, he lets the harsh air hit his face. He exhales again just as he hears his phone buzz against the coffee table.  _ It’s probably John. _ He tries to convince himself. 

He won’t give Mycroft the power. The satisfaction. 

How everything is always on his terms. 

He lasts a full minute before another vibration against the glass smashes his resolve. 

_ The usual time? At mine? MH _

_ This is usually a time to make resolutions. Not break them. MH _

For that, Sherlock blows a series of the most obnoxious smoke rings that he could manage.

_ It’s the holidays, Mycroft. It’s the time for vice. Your scale would know. SH _

_ As droll as ever, little brother. Now, your answer? MH _

_ I will be there. SH  _

He puts the phone down. 

> It’s as if he is sixteen again. 
> 
> As if he was at his parents’ home in the countryside. Back then was a hell of another sort. School was full of dullards, each one determined to be crueller than the next. Home was dull, dull and dull. 
> 
> A series of different shades of grey.
> 
> Until Mycroft suddenly showed up. At dinner. 
> 
> It had been hot. Sherlock had spent the day wilting in the coolest spot he could find in the cellar. 
> 
> He hadn’t even recognized him at first. Dressed in a bespoke suit that easily cost a small fortune. He remembered the vibrant red tie. The matching handkerchief. Somehow looking cool and collected despite the sweltering heat. His hair impeccably styled. 
> 
> Leagues beyond any of the boys that Sherlock had ever been exposed to. 
> 
> It had been hard to reconcile that this was Mycroft. The big chubby brother that had played with him, that had taught him everything that had been worth knowing (to the much younger Lock) and that he had once shared a bed with. 
> 
> He remembered playing with his peas with the tines of his fork while Mycroft had talked to their Father – about some play that they had both recently seen in London. Mummy had scolded him for playing with his food – but really, he had been too busy drinking in his brother and was trying not to be too obvious about it.
> 
> Nothing had happened until Mummy had decided that they ought to go to the seashore to beat the heat. 
> 
> All Sherlock has memories of that trip is his brother. How gracefully he makes use of his long limbs to stroke his way through the vast seas. The musculature of his forearms when he had his sleeves rolled up. Which had been most of the time. And of course, how increasingly tongue-tied Sherlock became whenever Mycroft had deigned to speak to him. 
> 
> Mummy had scolded him on that front too for being rude. 
> 
> Then there had been  _ that  _ night. The night where Mycroft and he had been put into one room. With one dingy bed that was barely enough for one person, let alone two. Sherlock had showered last, hastily put on his too-big pyjamas and stumbled onto the mattress, feeling his heart hammering away in his chest in a way it had never done before. 
> 
> Mycroft had offered to sleep in the beat-up ancient armchair, but Sherlock had insisted that there had been enough space for the two of them. Now he regretted his generosity. He was facing his brother who was dressed in his own pyjamas. Silk. An exotic breed compared to Sherlock’s own humble garments. 
> 
> He couldn’t have imagined it then – the world of grandeur that his brother inhabits. A minor position in Her Majesty’s Civil Service is what Mycroft had described for the benefit of their parents. Otherwise, Mycroft had been sparse in details regarding his work. About where he gets his money. His luxuries. 
> 
> Then there is the way his brother is sprawled on the bed. So casual. Confident. In a way that only Sherlock could dream of. Leaving just enough for Sherlock to slot himself in the negative spaces without falling out. Leaving him dangerously close to this stranger that had replaced his once approachable Mycie. Close enough to smell him. That enticing mix of musk and of residual bespoke cologne. Evoking feelings within Sherlock that he knew of – theoretically, but had never had experienced before.
> 
> “I don’t bite, Sherlock.” Mycroft might have smiled, but Sherlock had been spooked. “Why can’t you look at me?”
> 
> Because… It had been akin to looking at the sun. But Sherlock had never been a dab hand at making good self-preserving choices. He looks up, seeing the dim lamplight cast shadows on his brother’s face. Those bright blue eyes scrutinizing him. Deducing him. Sherlock would know for it had been Mycroft who had taught him the foundation of how to make deductions. How to read the goldfish that Sherlock never had any patience to decipher. Hence his messes in school. 
> 
> After Mycroft had taken in what he wanted to take in, he asked. “So, how are you – little brother?”
> 
> “Could you not deduce it?” Sherlock said as quickly as he could, but slow enough that he doesn’t regress to lisping. He felt like a precarious house of cards, where the simplest breeze could be enough to send him tumbling.
> 
> “There is value in hearing what you have to say. Sherlock.” 
> 
> Mycroft’s breath brushed against his face. A hot caress. The way Mycroft focused on him made him feel important. As if he mattered in a way that he had never mattered. Later, Sherlock knew that this is how Mycroft charmed and flattered the people that he had needed. Just as his ‘Iceman’ persona kept people away and off-kilter. They were just tools in his arsenal to get what he wanted, although Sherlock still doesn’t know what the ‘real’ Mycroft buried within had craved to this day. 
> 
> There was very little big brother wouldn’t do to get what he wanted. 
> 
> “Surviving.” Sherlock shrugged. What could Mycroft possibly want to hear from a sixteen year old? 
> 
> “School?”
> 
> “Alright.” 
> 
> Sherlock answered the question a tad too quickly. He doesn’t like to talk about school. Not when he was a year away from leaving sixth form and its boorish idiots behind. Never mind that they had shoved him head first in a toilet bowl at the beginning of the year. The slightly more intelligent of the bunch realized what Sherlock had to offer and had quickly coerced him into doing their problems sets in return for favours. They wouldn’t bully him, but they wouldn’t stop the others from doing so. No one wanted to be publicly associated with him, even the ones who would blow him enthusiastically for the answers to last year’s Chemistry exam. A class where Sir would reuse half the questions from the preceding year. 
> 
> “It will pass.” Mycroft replied reassuringly after a moment of thought. A moment where Sherlock had thought he would press further. “Although I do have to say that it was a fascinating study of global politics in microscale.” 
> 
> At that, Sherlock’s mind produced an image of someone sucking off his brother. A faceless individual determined to get into his brother’s good books. Whatever blood that remained in his head abruptly goes south when the faceless boy starts to warp in his mind. Turning into him. 
> 
> Although the evenings adjacent to the sea are cool, Sherlock abruptly felt as if he was burning up. He had started to panic then and there. 
> 
> But then his brother grabbed him by the arms. 
> 
> “Relax.” Mycroft ordered. Firmly but gently. “Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.”
> 
> Sherlock had been sure at that point that his cheeks were as red as a cherry tomato. When he had returned to a semi-normal state, his brother assessed quietly and clinically.
> 
> “Sherlock. Listen to me. This will pass. It’s a physical reaction. Nothing more. It’s better with someone your age. Trust me.” 
> 
> Something about how his brother just wrote off his emotional experience rankled him.
> 
> Never had Sherlock felt like this before. This intense whatever it was. He had experiences with people his age, but he had never felt anything other than the physical pleasure associated with such acts. 
> 
> In his frustration he had said. “You want it too. You want… me.”
> 
> His brother froze. For a moment, Sherlock could see the flicker in his blue eyes. Vulnerability. It had been a haphazard utterance, but at that instance, he could put together all the pieces in retrospect. He’d seen other people look at him like that. The way his brother had fixated on his neck, his eyes – and how they had gone downwards.
> 
> “No…” It had been fascinating, watching the coolness crumble. 
> 
> “Don’t you lie.” 
> 
> Sherlock leaned forward just a bit – allowing his hips to sway. For a moment, there was the thrill of seeing Mycroft give way. When his groin came into contact with his brother’s – Mycroft threw himself back – practically landing on the questionably hygienic carpeting. 
> 
> “That’s neither here nor there, Sherlock.” Mycroft was getting up, his tone growing severer by the syllable. “What I want is immaterial. This cannot happen.”
> 
> “Why?!” Sherlock crawled his way to the edge of the bed. “I want it. You want it. So what’s the –”
> 
> “It’s illegal. For starters. You are sixteen, brother mine. Too young to know yourself. What would Mummy –”
> 
> “Hang Mummy!” He declared passionately. “I know what this is about. This is about… your job.” 
> 
> “Sherlock.” Mycroft looked at him warily. “No. This cannot ever happen. You will move on, like all the other boys. I am going to drive back to London in the morrow.”
> 
> Mycroft whisked himself into the loo and before Sherlock had known it, his brother had vanished back out of his life. In the morning, when Mummy had asked Sherlock what had happened to Mycroft, he had just shrugged his shoulders trying to hide his misery with non-verbal grunts.

Why does the past seem so present to him now? 

The clouds had cleared, leaving a sky as dark as obsidian and if one squints, the ethereal sparkle of stars. 

It was Eurus, wasn’t it? That had bridged the gap between the now and then. She had known, hadn’t she? The true complicated nature of the relationship between Mycroft and himself. Known that Mycroft had been the only person that had meant something to him in that special way? Known that the brunt of the pain that Sherlock carries in his soul can be traced back to his brother? Or maybe… she hadn’t known the true nature of the pain he bears. Like everyone else, even Moriarty hadn’t seen through the resentment that had coloured whatever it is that’s between them. 

There is no better disguise than the truth is there?

He rests his eyes on the Christmas tree standing next to the fireplace. Ornaments contributed by both John and Mrs Hudson. Nothing like the monstrous entity that had stood in Mummy’s living room. She had liked to throw parties then. The bigger the better.

The last one he had gone to was during his second year at Oxford. 

> He had been at the cusp of turning nineteen. 
> 
> It was the next time he had come face to face with his brother again. Mycroft had brought someone. Another man. A foot shorter than Mycroft. A nervous disposition. Dirty blond, but there had been something in the delicate structure of his face that reminded him of… himself. Dressed in clothes more expensive than Sherlock’s future diploma. They had held hands, kissed in semi-private areas and Sherlock had been at his rudest best.
> 
> “Fancy seeing you here, Mycroft. I was beginning to wonder if you’ve forgotten the family.” Sherlock drawled. 
> 
> The other man had scrutinized Sherlock and had found him wanting. He instantly jumps to Mycroft’s defence. “Mycroft would never forget family, wouldn’t you – darling? The presents he’s brought –”
> 
> “Ah, nothing like spreading a little material wealth around to assuage a little guilt at Christmas.” Sherlock had cut him right off with an astute yet biting deduction. He had flipped Mummy’s dress code the bird, and was wearing only a tweed dressing gown. “But I am sure Mycroft hasn’t forgotten the cakes.”
> 
> He had walked straight off after looking pointedly at his brother’s belly. Since the last time they had seen each other, Mycroft had put on a stone and a half. 
> 
> He had intended to be a disruptive nuisance throughout the party, but seeing Mycroft with someone… well… it hurt. More than he had thought possible. Contrary to big brother’s adamant belief that he would grow out of this, he hadn’t. Absence had only seemed to make things worse. He took a cup of punch from the bowl that he had spiked with an extra bottle of rum earlier and went straight to his room. 
> 
> He hated parties. He hated the holidays. He hated how big brother could just live his life like this. Bringing some horrid, filthily rich man that was unworthy of him. It wasn’t bloody fair. He remembered thinking. He spent the time looking out the bay window – navigating the constellations, taking small sips of the potent punch. 
> 
> When the fruity drink had left him the right amount of warm and tipsy, he lit a mix of the scented candles which approximated Mycroft’s cologne that he had smuggled from Mummy earlier in the day. 
> 
> He flicked off the lights and reached over to grab a bit of lube.
> 
> A simple tug undid his gown, splaying the thick fabric onto the mattress. He took himself in hand and frigged. Slowly. Deliberately. 
> 
> That night then. In that sordid little room. The salty air pervading even the interiors. How might it gone had Mycroft not been the proper sort of sod he was? How close they had been? Their breaths blown across each other’s face. Their knees and elbows touched. That tantalizing tuft of fur curling out from the collar of Mycroft’s shirt. A kiss then. Soft lips pressed against his own. A little moan as their groins slotted together. The delicious scrape of stubble against his face. Delicious friction as they rutted against the other. 
> 
> God. More.
> 
> And then he had felt it then. Someone watching him from beyond the room. The door had been open. A tiny crack, but enough. He continued his strokes at the same leisurely pace, using his other hand to fondle his scrotal sac. 
> 
> It’s not enough. 
> 
> A common problem that Sherlock runs into these days. 
> 
> He slipped his fingers further, rubbing at his taint – seeking the release that he longed for. He turned over just a little, spreading his thighs in one smooth movement. A loud moan escaped him when his finger brushed against that tight furl of virginal muscle. Yes. Fuck. His breathing became increasingly stilted. He was panting harshly – now rutting against the tweed of his gown, temporarily forgetting about his audience of one. 
> 
> Losing himself completely as that devilish finger toyed slowly against the rim of his hole. 
> 
> So close. 
> 
> So fucking close. 
> 
> Impulsively, on a whim, he gathers a bit of lubricant from his cock. With one solid push, he slid the digit in for the first time and he capitulated with a cry of…
> 
> “Mycroft!”
> 
> In his post-orgasmic haze, he lifted his head up slightly and turned just a tad. His eyes met blue irises just before they grew larger with the tell-tale creak of the door as Mycroft pushed it open.
> 
> “Really, brother dear – anyone could have walked in –”
> 
> “Should you not be stuffing your face with Mummy’s roast beef? I made sure I heard the clinking of glasses, the grating of the forks and the  _ exercising  _ of jaws at the dinner table before I started.”
> 
> “Childish.” Mycroft tutted.
> 
> “Says the one who stood out there. Hm.” Sherlock quickly makes another deduction. “For the entire damned show. Last time I checked, this  _ was _ my bedroom. And there is nothing wrong with a bit of a wank. Beating the meat. Cleaning the pipes. It’s healthy, even.”
> 
> There was something satisfying about the way the calculated vulgarities send ripples of discomfort through Mycroft’s countenance. Like skipping stones on a clear body of water in the large lake just outside the house.
> 
> “I thought it was only polite to let you finish. What is not healthy is the utterance of your brother’s name at the pinnacle in your baby-bed.” Mycroft crossed his arms.
> 
> “What is  _ not _ right is your voyeuristic critique of my masturbary preferences,  _ big _ brother.”  _ Especially while I am naked.  _ Sherlock mirrored his brother, turning a little away from him. “Besides, if I wanted the proper experience, your bed would have been the superior setting considering I spent more time in it than my own.”
> 
> “Sherlock. Be honest. Have you – have you –” 
> 
> Seeing Mycroft uncharacteristically falter took Sherlock aback. A peek behind the mask. As if Mycroft was vacillating between wanting Sherlock to move on or wanting him to remain.
> 
> “Deduce it yourself!” Sherlock had all but snapped. He stood up, pulling the gown around himself with all the dignity he could muster. After all, it’s not him that had done anything wrong. “You are certainly not deaf. And I hope that you don’t think I am fucked up enough to utter someone’s name at that critical point when I don’t give a fig about them for a lark.”
> 
> In one of his rare moments of strength, Sherlock strode out of his room and refrained from slamming the door behind him. Unlike Lot’s wife as she was fleeing Sodom – he did not look back.

Sherlock squats at the fireplace, looking at the banked fire. He reaches in, loosens a stone from one of its walls and pulls out a burn bag that he had stolen from his brother’s office. 

Once upon a time, he had kept drugs in here, but no more. He fishes out the folded lab report that he had gotten the week before, detailing his negativity to all testable sexually-transmitted and blood-borne diseases. 

He hasn't used in almost a year now, and he has no intention to unless he is ready to leave this miserable plane of existence via overdose. 

His eyes close tightly for it reminds him of the open-status of their arrangement; Mycroft will be showing him a twin of his tomorrow. Intentional or not, it rubs in the fact that his brother seeks intimacy elsewhere during the rest of the year. 

There are other things in the bag too. 

He runs through the mementos like beads on a rosary. Memories run through his mind, as clear as the day they had happened. Postcards. Pictures. Most notably a tiny urn containing ashes from a fire from a fine manor once known as Appledore. 

A sane person would have binned the urn ages ago, but it reminds him of just how much he has sacrificed for love. 

And just how truly precarious their positions are. 

It is also to give him the resolve to do it in the coming days. 

To end it. 

To set them both free. 

He will detonate the bag when he returns, retrieve a twin of the first bag containing false papers and airline tickets amongst the other necessary whatnot that’s in his room and leave before Mycroft realizes what is up. 

In retrospect, Sherlock had known Mycroft would text.

There is no way he can survive here in England after this. 

There is nothing left for him here.

The last adventure. The hardest one of all. 

He only hopes that he is strong enough to make it.

> The next morning, Mycroft had left with his beau in tow before Sherlock had gotten up. 
> 
> But at the foot of his bed is a present wrapped in exquisite wrapping paper. Beneath it is a card bearing a bright red cardinal standing in a tree, reminding Sherlock of the red tie that Mycroft had worn during that summer. 
> 
> On the other side, there are three neatly written words written after much deliberation.
>
>> I am sorry.
> 
> Within the gift’s wrappings is a box embossed with a designer’s logo.
> 
> And a blue woolen scarf.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s arrived at a crossroads.

Mycroft reflects, looking out the French windows. The sun is descending, setting fire to the snowy landscape. The cold tumbler in his hand sparkles. 

Lord Willoughby is dead. Or rather, Evander as he had preferred to be called in private by Mycroft. 

A duty has been discharged and now everything is a jumble in his usually ordered mind. 

Perhaps he ought to feel more upset over Evander’s passing, but he doesn’t. He had been fond of his ‘mentor’– as fond as he could be of anyone who wasn’t Sherlock – but the man had passed from a terminal lymphoma. 

No, as cliché as it is to say, Evander is in a better place now. 

Alas, his thoughts go Sherlock-ward. They always do. More so after Sherrinford. It’s incurable, but at this later stage in his life, he wouldn’t want them to go away. 

He steps away from the window, intending to pour some more of the fine Scotch offered at the generously laden bereavement table. 

It’s a small funeral. Family only. 

A wisp of sweet perfume greets him. _Cherry Garden._ “Mycroft.” 

He turns around, to see the dowager approach. 

“Lady –”

She cuts him off with a wan smile. “Mycroft. I think… you can call me Winnie. You are, after all, family.”

The number of times he had spoken to Evander’s lawfully wedded wife could be counted on one hand. What’s it like then? To be playing happy families knowing that your husband has a predilection for (usually younger) men? 

Contrary to what Sherlock may think, there hadn’t been anything sexual between Evander and himself in the recent years. Like his relationship with little brother over the past decades, his own relationship with Evander had evolved too.

It seems like just yesterday when Lord Willoughby had only been a name. 

A name whispered quietly in the upper echelons of Her Majesty’s Government but always with a tinge of awe. Of mystery. Of anticipation. 

The breezes and even gusts of change.

One of the shades behind the political leviathans of the free world. And perhaps, even further. Nameless entities that persist regardless of the dog and pony show that is the face of a nation. They would never be in the history books, but yet it is the Shades who steer the ship, communicate and negotiate with the other shades from other blocks of power and divert course whenever necessary. For the good of the nation. Like tectonic plates, the friction between these shades determine the rise and fall of empires. Sometimes over the course of centuries, and sometimes – more exhilaratingly over the course of hours. 

To a young Mycroft – this had been the Greatest Game.

And Mycroft had wanted in. 

So he worked hard. Making contacts. Performing favours big and small. Observing. Listening. Waiting for the barest chance of an opportunity. It was during his stint at the Foreign Office when he first laid eyes on Lord Willoughby. 

Or rather, Lord Wiloughby had laid eyes on him. 

It had been strange to be on the other side of such scrutiny. Nor had he expected Lord Willoughby to be so… young. He had only been twenty years his senior. Mycroft knew he came with limited physical gifts, so he had made the most of what he had with the finest clothes that money could buy. His first paltry civil servant paychecks and whatever inheritance he had received primarily went toward his wardrobe (and his rent). And a little while later, investments. 

And so began their relationship which Mycroft would best characterize as ‘pederastic’. 

“Winnie, then – how may I help you?”

“I just… wanted to chat.” She says. “If you don’t mind.”

“But… of course.”

“Through there then. We should have at the very least – a modicum of privacy.”

Her heels click away, and Mycroft follows. 

The memories continue to flow unabated. 

There had been so much to learn. So much to see. Mycroft remembers running errands on behalf of Lord Willoughby. From things as simple from fetching coffee to eventually serving as his trusted proxy for deals that he brokered himself. He had also moved from role to role from department to department – as the Lord had deemed that knowing the internal workings and the limitations of Her Majesty’s government was critical to the role he plays now. 

But what had been most bewildering to him had been the off-hours. The travels. The finest of foods. The entertainment. The dizzying array of parties, banquets and even sport. 

And even in bed. 

That was where Lord Willoughby had become Evander and sometimes even Ev. It was in bed where they talked shop. Where Evander would ask him for his impressions of various things. Of his experiences. Where he would discuss the things that Mycroft needed to improve on. Frankly but kindly. And how to do so. Afterwards, Evander would kiss him and Mycroft would let him take his pleasure in any way that he saw fit. The whole experience was empowering in a way that Mycroft had never expected. It gave him the courage to push on and eventually even eclipse the heights that his ‘mentor’ had reached. 

It was also in the beginning of all this when Mycroft found himself with an amorous Sherlock in bed, and that – quite easily – was one of the scariest experiences in his entire diplomatic career. If not the scariest. It certainly was far more shocking than learning about the fate of sister dear from Uncle Rudy a few years later. And it wasn’t little brother that he found frightening. It was himself. And what he secretly, deep down – had desired. 

And… desired to this very day. 

The room is small compared to the rest of the house. The walls are made up of panels of glass with intricate metal-work stitching it together, extending to a baroque-styled domed roof. He waits for Lady Willoughby to sit down on one of the comfy armchairs the room had to offer. 

She doesn’t. She glances at him and then at the windows – the idyllic winter scenery outdoors on the grounds. Mycroft has no idea what she is here to say. 

A lifetime seems to elapse until she finally speaks.

“He… cared about you, Mycroft. Very much.” Her words are measured. “Our relationship was not a love-match, not by any means. We were free to pursue our interests, as long as we remained discreet. Kept the image of the perfect family. Happy children. Domestic bliss. Despite this, I still cared for him. Evander. Boys had come and gone through his fingers like water. They never call. And yet – here you still are.” She chuckles lightly. “I just wanted to know, Mycroft – what was he to you?”

“He…” Mycroft finds himself saying. “He was my mentor. I owe him… my entire career.” 

“And from what I understand…” Lady Willoughby permits a tiny smile. “It is a remarkably illustrious one. The Arranger he called you. A Wrangler of Leviathans. Despite the idiocy of our fellow countrymen. And colleagues. The greatest gift to a teacher, Mycroft – is to see their students succeed. To watch them soar to the greatest heights.”

Mycroft actually blushes. Not from his accomplishments in world politics, but from… guilt. 

He had been so preoccupied with the world around him, trying to negotiate and establish a new niche for Great Britain post-Brexit that he had neglected what had been going on from under his very nose. Even with his brother’s timely warnings. Not an hour goes by where he doesn’t think of Eurus’ shenanigans. Of his own power and arrogance. 

It weighs in his heart deeply; the darkness threatening to consume him at times. It had been so much easier to join Evander in his last days than to face his brother. To face his failures. 

To deal with the possibility that there could be a world without Sherlock. 

> “Mycroft, Mycroft – come back, come back.” Evander called out gently. There is almost a singsong lilt to his refined voice. He raised a hand, and his fingers tenderly brushed aside Mycroft’s forelock.
> 
> “Huh?” 
> 
> He had turned to look at the greying aristocrat lying next to him. Only his pallor gave away the illness that ravages deep within him. 
> 
> It’s not the first time where Mycroft had been lost in thought. 
> 
> If not Sherrinford, Sherlock. 
> 
> If not Sherlock, Sherrinford. 
> 
> “You are a million miles away. What are you thinking about, I wonder? Your next conquest?” 
> 
> There was a teasing lilt in his voice. It’s funny, how when people aged – or were about to approach the end, there was a regression of sorts. He could almost picture the boy Evander had been.
> 
> “No.” Mycroft sighed. His games have lost their lustre, and like Sherlock, he had adopted the art of brooding to pass the time. Anthea hadn’t been surprised with the amount of time that Mycroft had taken off. But he knew that she had been delighted at the opportunity to fill in the power vacuum that he had left behind. To test her own mettle in a merciless world as he had at the beginnings of his own journey. “Nothing of that sort.”
> 
> “Oh? Do tell.” Evander’s interest perked, his own hazel eyes glinting. “Is it… your sister?”
> 
> Mycroft nodded. It was close enough. Deceits ought to be wrapped in truths.
> 
> “You do know it’s not your fault that people don’t carry out orders, duck –”
> 
> “I failed to follow one of your most basic axioms in my arrogance, Ev. One must always verify. You would have had me over your thighs back then –”
> 
> Evander laughed. Freely. He smiled, looking wistful. “So… you are human after all, Myc. Welcome back to Earth. A condition of being human is that we err. Good Lord – the mistakes I’ve made throughout the years… Unfortunately, we are mortals who play Gods – and as a result our mistakes are more calamitous than the ones our brethren make.” He continued to chuckle. “But… it’s not just your sister, isn’t it? There’s more. It’s the matter of the heart, isn’t it?”
> 
> Mycroft kept silent. 
> 
> He had always wondered if Evander had known. 
> 
> Vice was everywhere in the elite. The powerful. They served as checks and balances to keep everyone on an equal playing field. Some more equal than others of course. He had done his best to keep his record pristine, but even he had weaknesses that had been exploited before… but he would not think of them at this moment, for it only brings more turmoil and guilt to his state of mind.
> 
> “I’ve always wondered… there’s usually always something. Boys. Girls. Both. The whores. Animals. Drugs. The horses. Gambling dens. Bookies. You know my shortcomings, but I’ve never seen a glimpse of yours. You don’t have to tell me, but I promise you that I will take whatever it is that burdens your soul to my grave. It’s…” Evander closes his eyes, for once looking like a man two steps away from his own grave. “The least I could do. For… what you’ve brought to me in these last days. Comfort.”
> 
> “I will… think about it.” Mycroft said carefully. 
> 
> Nothing came without a price. Not in their world. But perhaps it was something he had already paid for in full. It made him feel like a fledgling again, eager to confess his mistakes. To seek absolution for sins that had been an intrinsic part of him for too long.
> 
> “I love you.” The hints of death had dissipated from Evander’s countenance. “I love you more than I love my wife. My children. But I know you don’t return it. And I don’t expect you to. My choices in life have led me to this path. To walk alone to the Valley of Shadows without knowing what it is like to be loved in return.”
> 
> Mycroft bowed his head. He had suspected it during the process of making his mark on the world, and oddly it was then when Evander had stopped sharing pleasure with him. 
> 
> He hadn’t understood then, but perhaps… he understands now. 
> 
> Instead he said. “Thank you for telling me.”
> 
> “Telling you was a purely selfish move on my part, duck.” 
> 
> He permitted Mycroft to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you.” He says, a little stiffly. “I don’t deserve such praise.”

“Nonsense!” Lady Willoughby exclaims. She then adds. “He told me to give you this. Evie said you would know what to do with it.” From the folds of her dress, she removes a single key attached to green and golden tassels. 

Curious, Mycroft takes the offering. He would have to make a trip to the Diogenes before he goes home. 

“I suppose you wouldn’t be following in his footsteps then? Taking a wife and having a few children for the sake of appearances?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Mycroft replies, shuddering. His life is already too complicated, and having more duplicity in it sounded like a recipe for disaster. 

“Good, good. Mycroft. Stay as long as you need to. Visit as you wish. Evander was a good husband. A loving father. You will always have a spot here amongst the Willoughbys.” 

* * *

When he finally makes it to his bedroom for the night, Mycroft undos his tie and plops himself onto the bed. 

What a day. He had to play nice with the rest of the immediate family which included entertaining Lady Willoughby's grandchildren who were constantly underfoot and sharing amusing anecdotes of his late mentor with people who didn’t know the facets of Evander that he knew. Both professional and personal.

There is a bottle of fine Scotch waiting for him on a side table, but he decides to not partake. He pulls out his phone, unlocks it and scrolls through his contacts, stopping at Sherlock’s familiar number. 

> For the entire week, warning bells had sounded in Mycroft’s mind. But he paid it no mind. He had promised Sherlock. He would give him himself for a weekend. And no more. He had taken all the precautions. Made every arrangement himself. Sweeped the area for any signs of compromise. Baby brother’s obsession needed to be dealt with, and perhaps… filling a fantasy would do the trick? 
> 
> Now he stood at the cottage, breathing in the cool summer air. There were mountains on one side and waters as still as a looking glass on the other. There was mist in the air, blocking the sun and obscuring the landscape – creating an eerie sort of atmosphere that cried for artistic preservation. 
> 
> It’s beautiful though. 
> 
> His peace was shattered when he heard.
> 
> “Mycie!” 
> 
> It’s Sherlock. At twenty-one. Bounding toward him. Lithe and long-limbed. Dark curls tumbling all over, almost grazing his shoulders. Slightly heavier than he had seen him last. 
> 
> Healthy. Gorgeous. 
> 
> Forbidden. 
> 
> But oh, why did he think this was a bad idea again? 
> 
> His brother embraced him immediately. Never had Mycroft had someone so enthusiastic to see him. Sherlock immediately buried his face against Mycroft’s neck, taking in his scent as if it held the answers to all the pertinent questions in the universe. 
> 
> “Easy, easy. Lock.” Mycroft gently pulled away, reaching out to grab his wrist. “We have time.”
> 
> There was a flash in Sherlock’s eyes. But his brother tightened his lips, and prevented whatever retort he has from escaping. Instead he asked after scrutinizing the vistas, his tone light. “So this… this is all… ours?”
> 
> “For the next day and a half… yes.”
> 
> “Wonderful.”
> 
> Sherlock pulled him inside. Suddenly soft lips were touching his own. So tender and sweet. Innocent. It’s obvious that Sherlock had already thought about what he had wanted. His brother abruptly pulled away, looking slightly disappointed – but Mycroft slid his fingers into Sherlock’s soft silky curls, and kissed back with equal fervour. His brother’s fingers were all over him, seeming to savour him through his expensive fabrics. As if trying to memorize him. Breaking him into his constitutional parts for reassembly later on. The hands slid slowly downwards, caressing his chest and when they touched his abdomen he tensed – remembering all those jokes regarding his diet that Sherlock had thrown his way. 
> 
> “Stop it. Relax.” Sherlock separated their lips to reprimand. “You are the British Government, you can’t go around being insecure like this.” 
> 
> His brother collapsed to his knees, looking up at him through his impossibly long lashes just as Mycroft said half teasingly and seriously – his back against a wall now. “Not yet.”
> 
> “Mm… my big brother – soon to be the big bad British Government.” 
> 
> Sherlock elevated himself and deliberately brushed his cheekbone against his cock, forcing a moan. It was ridiculous how eagerly his body responded to his brother. How he loved the look of Sherlock on his knees! Looking so atypically submissive! Then deft hands reached for his flies and soon Sherlock was contemplating his prick before a hot, hot tongue licked upwards tracing the path of a vein. 
> 
> Fuck, fuck – fuck.
> 
> His brother grasped the base of Mycroft’s cock, and he glanced upward. A maelstrom of colour meeting his own blue ones. He stroked it gently, building a comfortable rhythm that was not enough to go anywhere. 
> 
> “Tell me, brother dear – how does it normally go? Would you have your minion on their knees, looking up at you like this? Would you order them to take you in hand and caress you like this? Or would you prefer that they put their mouth around you – like this?”
> 
> And then Sherlock engulfed the head of his cock and more with his mouth. 
> 
> Who does Sherlock think he is? Demanding sexual favours from his underlings? This whole situation seemed too rehearsed, as if Sherlock had spent ages in front of a mirror with a dildo in hand, practicing what he had planned to do. Wanting to replace whoever it was that he had thought usually sucked off Mycroft’s cock? What was he even trying to prove? 
> 
> This exercise was meant for Sherlock to work his desires out of his system, not for him to guess what Mycroft wanted. 
> 
> He watched his brother bob his head, trying to accommodate his member and as sexy as it was – it didn’t sit right with Mycroft. 
> 
> Grabbing his brother’s curls, he pulled him off his prick and gave a second tug – gesturing for Sherlock to meet him again at standing height. There was a perplexed expression on Sherlock’s face when he does so, but Mycroft kissed it away, as fiercely as he could.

Perhaps, he should have realized then what a lost cause this all was. It was a silly idea that only a weekend of sexual pleasure could satiate Sherlock’s needs. Wants. Sherlock at that young age had been determined to do whatever he thought it was that Mycroft had wanted. And that if he had jumped through enough hoops, Mycroft would agree to have a relationship with him. An impossibility for it would lead him (if not the both of them) to sure ruin. 

But he had felt responsible for Sherlock’s plight, and had been determined to help his brother through his feelings.

Sherrinford. He could see the gun again in Sherlock’s pale long fingers. See little brother turn the gun from him to himself. Mycroft had seen that possibility, and deep down – had expected it, but seeing the reality played out in front of him had caused him to freeze. The silent panic that he had felt when the count trended down toward zero. The worst of all of it had been how calm Sherlock was in the face of his own impending death. 

Yet, even now – he could sense it. 

Time was running out. 

For what, he isn’t sure – but it pertains to his brother. 

_Sherlock won’t wait forever._

The thought strikes him. He texts:

_The usual time? At mine? MH_

No immediate response. He could almost sense Sherlock brooding from here. 

_This is usually a time to make resolutions. Not break them. MH_

His mind keeps wandering back to that weekend in the Lake District so long ago. Swimming in their private picturesque lake, surrounded by mountains and forests that had inspired myths and legends. With his own undine peeking out of the depths. If he had any interest in picking up a brush, perhaps Mycroft would have painted him. Water clinging on to his pale skin, collecting in the hollows of his beautiful neck and forcing his curls to straighten somewhat with its weight. And his eyes, dancing with mirth and mischief! Pushing Mycroft out of the canoe they had been paddling, causing him to fall straight in with an undignified yelp. Mycroft retaliating by pulling him in with him and dunking him into the waters until they were both breathless from both a lack of oxygen and laughter. Sherlock cheating in their swimming races by grabbing him around the waist as Mycroft’s long limbs could outstroke him in a few easy strides. That harmonious mix of both physical tension and comfort that they had found with each other once Sherlock had put away the acting. 

Mycroft had never felt that way with another person. And he knows at this point in his life, he never will. 

_It’s the holidays, Mycroft. It’s the time for vice. Your scale would know. SH_

A low blow. But alas, it is nothing in the grand scale of past resentments. 

Mycroft pushes past it. 

_As droll as ever, little brother. Now, your answer? MH_

_I will be there. SH_

Of course he will. Mycroft sighs warily, feeling the brunt of his forty-four years of life. 

He removes the rest of his accoutrements. The pair of golden cufflinks with the three English lions that Evander had gifted him so long ago for pulling off his first international coup. The longsword tie pin that Sherlock had given him one rare Christmas. Uncle Rudy’s pocket watch. He places each treasure carefully back in its rightful spot in his traveling accessory box on the nightstand.

He opts to shower. Afterwards he lies in his lonely bed with the lights turned off and with only the moon for illumination. 

> Kissing. 
> 
> They were locked in a dance of lips and tongues. Mycroft guided Sherlock toward the bed, pushing him onto it. It was the last night of their too short weekend deal. 
> 
> His brother went willingly, looking up at him with a thrilling wonderment that Mycroft could not decipher. It was dim in the room. Only the almost full moon spilled light onto the planes of Sherlock’s torso, pooling in the hollows. Looking very much like silvery ambrosia for Mycroft to lick and lick off his skin. He devoured his brother, leaving marks that would fade before the morning rose. 
> 
> Little brother with his neck extended, groaned in heavy-lidded pleasure as Mycroft took him apart. His hair disheveled and his forelocks obscured part of his face. Little pleas for more emerged from his lips, and Mycroft plunged forward, planting delicate little kisses in his wake. If he was to have his brother just this once, he would make it count. Sherlock trembled so deliciously when he finally traced the peripheral of his little rosy hole, and he buried his face against his brother’s arse, feeling the urge to sniff and lick. A compulsion that he had never experienced before. 
> 
> A ‘hnng!’ escapes from little brother when his tongue swiped teasingly at his arse, followed by a breathy ‘oh god, oh god – please!’. The muscle delved into the orifice, swirling around its clean perimeter slowly. Sherlock bucked and turned into a moaning mess, his breathing growing increasingly stilted when Mycroft slipped a lubed finger into his arse.
>
>> “I am not a virgin.”  
>    
>  Sherlock had said firmly when they had been discussing the terms of the agreement.
>> 
>>  _“I don’t expect you to be.”_ Mycroft nodded, looking out of the windows of the prestigious Magdalen College – towards one of the meticulous green quads where a few students had organized a five-a-side. He had known about the cocaine and other drugs that Sherlock had dabbled in now and then from his now-primitive methods of surveillance. Why wouldn’t have little brother explored this area of hedonism? It made things easier anyways. The less sentiment, the better. It made things less messy. And Mycroft despised messes. There was always a risk of leaving something behind that could trigger a post-mortem. _“I certainly hope you don’t expect me to be.”_
>> 
>> That earned a harsh chuckle from his stony faced brother. _“So… you expect that a vigorous course of fucking would cure me of my unorthodox… feelings, Dr Holmes?”_ His tone had been borderline mocking.
>> 
>> _“It’s about time you got over this unhealthy and childish infatuation, brother dear. It’s time to grow up. Be a man, as they say.”_
>> 
>> A ripple of something had crossed Sherlock’s features at those words, but he turned away before Mycroft could even attempt to decipher it. His voice was uncharacteristically controlled. _“You just can’t afford to have any undesirables mooning after you. Isn’t that right, Mycroft?”_
>> 
>>  _“This isn’t about me. This is about you.”_ His words had come out sharper than he had intended.
>> 
>> Sherlock had no direct response to that. 
>> 
>> _“Shall we go for a punt then?”_ Mycroft changed the subject minutes later.
> 
> “Mycroft… Mycroft… My… croft…” Sherlock breathed as Mycroft stroked his tight passage, gradually inserting more fingers – scissoring. 
> 
> And before Mycroft had known it, he was fucking into him – his lube-slicked cock having breached the tight orifice. It is the first time that Mycroft had ever so brazenly broken the law for his own pleasure. How amazingly his walls clung onto his prick! Sherlock was grabbing onto his shoulders, his fingernails digging deeper and deeper into his skin. Threatening to draw blood. 
> 
> There was something wild in his eyes. Something more luminous than moonlight as Sherlock rode him with almost a possessed furor. His breaths grew harsher amongst the percussive yet obscene slaps of flesh against flesh. The creak of the four-poster against the wall. Words like ‘more!’ and ‘fuck’ could barely be made out. When Mycroft sensed the looming climax – he reached for Sherlock’s own arousal, but his brother still had the fortitude to slap his hand away. 
> 
> “No.” Sherlock gasped. “Not… not like this. Say it… say it…” He fought to control his transport, trying to draw out the inevitable. 
> 
> “Say… what?” Mycroft blinked at him in confusion.
> 
> “Say it… Mycroft. I want to hear it. Just. Once. Please.” Sherlock struggled, his beautiful eyes burning as they glanced into his own. “Say… my… name!” 
> 
> His fingernails had most definitely clawed blood. 
> 
> Mycroft lost himself there. This was Sherlock – looking as vulnerable as he had ever seen him. Even if he hadn’t wanted to, his body obeyed instantly – his mouth forming the syllables of Sherlock’s name as he spilled. 
> 
> His brother collapsed with a keen at the foot of the bed. Like a marionette with its stings suddenly slit. His entire body seemed to quiver for a second, but then his brother took control of himself once more. In a flash, Sherlock had vanished from the room, leaving every last stitch of clothing behind. 
> 
> Deep down inside, Mycroft had the forbidding thought that nothing would ever be the same again.


	3. Chapter 3

For every choice, there is a price. 

Mycroft has spent the majority of his adult life contemplating and anticipating prices. Weighing pros and cons, trying to make the best of any situation. Trying to make the right move for Queen and Country, even if the public facing facets try their best to make everything go tits up despite the wise counsel of his own committee of hand-picked people. The shadow Cabinet. 

Alas, he can’t blame them, for it is the intrinsic nature of politically-inclined goldfish to be greedy and shallow. With few exceptions. The nature of the British Leviathan involved a relatively rapid turnover of its public leaders via legitimate election processes compared to other political beasts (most notably Russia and China), and as expected there’s always friction between the shadows and these individuals who will only reside in Whitehall temporarily. Not to say that one type of Leviathan is superior to another. There are advantages and disadvantages to each under different circumstances. The results of convergent evolution for society’s fundamental quest for Law and Order.

Professionally for the most part, he has been immensely successful, but personally, success is dubious at best. 

Sherlock is a variable that defies his expectations. 

He strides into his own house, switching on the lights as he goes. It’s been a few months since he had last stepped foot in here, but his housekeeper has kept it shipshape in the meanwhile. It’s a comfortable spot. A nice refuge away from doing battle at Whitehall. But, yet – he shivers slightly, remembering that incident with the clowns. With him being the biggest clown of all over the affair. Meticulously he checks over everything, doing a careful sweep indoors, looking for signs of tampering in preparation for his rendezvous with Sherlock. He has trusted agents watching the house, but one can never be too careful. 

He’d been away for too long.

> “You were too timid with Yevgeny’s men. They will never respect you if you don’t show your steel. They will stomp… all over you, duck and not look back.” Evander appraised critically. “You will call Yevgeny himself tomorrow, and mention clearly that we will get our imports elsewhere. We don’t have time for their nonsense! Our nation is not as big and as interconnected with them as the rest of Europe, and can afford to get an adequate supply elsewhere. Norway is always a cleaner source, for instance. Understand?”
> 
> Evander wasn’t unhappy with his work from what he could tell. This was the first time that he had negotiated with such a volatile party. He would have to impose harsher boundaries. Get comfortable with the uncomfortable. Especially with a Leviathan that is known for making their opposition disappear with unpleasant accidents where everyone and their babushkas knew that they weren’t accidents. 
> 
> The other parties who worked in the shadows were beginning to understand who the heir apparent to Lord Willoughby was. They were trying to make their mark on him, just as he was trying to figure out how to play in their world. To determine the unwritten rules, and of course – how to break them all.
> 
> “First thing tomorrow, I will call.” Mycroft agreed. 
> 
> “Good. Good. Work before pleasure is always a wise choice. Yevgeny is still in London, so he may prefer to meet in person to try and intimidate you. Privately. Ask Sergei a quarter of an hour beforehand to provision you adequately for the task. He knows the vodka that Yevgeny prefers to have at whichever time of day you two will meet, and he will… treat it appropriately. Sergei will also arrange an hour of private entertainment for afters. The less you know about it, the better. Don’t use your office for the meeting. It’s too small. Bland. He enjoys the Old Masters. Surprise him. He likes to be indulged.”
> 
> A phone on the nightstand started to ring. It was his. Mycroft was mortified that he hadn’t silenced it, as his mind had been too occupied with his work, but Evander only nodded, giving him leave to check. 
> 
> An unknown number. 
> 
> He picked it up.
> 
> “Is this Mr Mycroft Holmes?” 
> 
> In the background, he could hear the chatter of voices and the beeping of medical devices. 
> 
> “Are you the emergency contact of Mr Sherlock Holmes?”
> 
> A chill ran through his body. Good Lord, he hadn’t seen Sherlock since… that weekend in the Lake District that had ended so strangely. That had been over a year ago. Since then baby brother had graduated from Oxford and was doing good work in a clinical laboratory. 
> 
> Mummy had often called to inform him about how well Sherlock had been doing with his experiments and medical inventions. ‘Sure to bring home a Nobel Prize someday, Mycroft! Just watch him! Our little genius!’ And of course, to pester him to go see his brother. Something that Mycroft had been actively avoiding for his dreams had involved too much of that fateful weekend. If Sherlock was doing well, then who was he to interrupt and upset the delicate equilibrium? 
> 
> “Yes. I am.”
> 
> “We have your brother here in the A&E at St. Thomas. He was found by paramedics in a nearby alleyway, unconscious. Barely breathing. Hypothermic. Next to some syringes. We administered some narcan. We are warming him up right now and giving some fluids. We suspect a heroin overdose. Does he have any medical conditions? Allergies?”
> 
> They asked him the usual litany of questions and Mycroft answered them to the best of his ability. Sherlock hadn’t been using regularly during that year when the trip to the Lake District had occurred. It had been one of Mycroft’s requirements. 
> 
> All he could see was Sherlock in the moonlight, his beautiful body splayed out on the silken sheets for Mycroft’s pleasure. Mycroft would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t beat off to the imagery of that night no more than once a week.
> 
> “I will be there.” Mycroft says quietly, the dread curdling in the depths of his now trim body. 
> 
> He had been taking lessons from the instructors of the MI6 in the rare event that he would need to extricate himself from difficult situations. The lessons were many with real-world simulation. He had often left the training field sweaty and bruised with usually an amorous Evander waiting for him at one of their various meeting points. 
> 
> He hung up, just as Evander asked.
> 
> “Your brother?”
> 
> He gave a curt nod. Two words devoid of emotion fall from his lips.
> 
> “He… overdosed.” 
> 
> “Go then.” Evander gave him a look full of sympathy. “I have contacts in Switzerland if you need a reliable place for rehabilitation. One question, though?”
> 
> “Of course.” Mycroft looked at him curiously, trying to not give away his secret.
> 
> “Your brother. He’s… important to you?”
> 
> “Very.”
> 
> “Good. It’s essential, Mycroft – to have interests outside of your career. Helps you stay grounded. It reminds you that we are not Gods. This is Whitehall. Not Mytikas –”
> 
> “The Gods were prone to vice too.” Mycroft stated pointedly, just as Evander waved him off. 
> 
> “We aren’t immortal.” Evander uttered just before the door closed behind Mycroft. “Far from it.”
> 
> His driver took him to St. Thomas as fast as he could. 
> 
> What a contrast. 
> 
> His brother lay motionless on the crisp white sheets. A fallen angel. His features pale and ashen, covered by an unappealing mint hospital gown. He looked so impossibly small. How alive he had been in the waters not too long ago! He’d lost all the weight and some that he had gained when Mycroft had seen him last. He could barely make out the rise and fall of his chest, pushing much needed oxygen to feed that magnificent brain of his. What had led to this? He mused. A new love? Boredom? Failure of one of his projects? 
> 
> He walked closer, feeling the need to be next to his brother. Cautiously, he held his brother’s hand. 
> 
> Sherlock’s eyes flickered open. Blinking dumbly at him. Dull blue-greens scanning him, feebly taking in the data. 
> 
> His blood had run cold then.
> 
> Sherlock had done this on purpose.

***

***

The afternoon is grey when he wakes up on the couch. 

Sherlock prepares himself. Something light to eat. A thorough wash, including an enema. He’s the one who always bottoms. Symbolic. His brother is always seeking control after all. No surprises there. It’s going to rain today. He can feel it in his bones. His joints. In the scars holding what remained of his intact flesh together. The price tag of a life too adventurously lived. He looks through his wardrobe, trying to find what suits him best. It’s the last time. He would make it count however he could. Blue shirt then. A present from Mycroft. ‘Brings out the colours of your eyes, brother dear.’ He hears the echo from long back.

He takes his time. Throwing wistful looks all around. He’s changed so much over the years. Learned many lessons, some more bitter than others. 

The Arrangement. Mycroft had called it. If Sherlock kept himself clean, he could have… his brother in his entirety once per year. Of course, some years were more tumultuous than others, and Sherlock had fallen once, twice – countless times, but usually Sherlock had put himself together by the time the end of the year had rolled around. Into some semblance of a respectable member of society. 

How he had laughed, when he had discovered that Mycroft’s lesser known nickname was the ‘Arranger’? 

> Blue eyes looked down at him. Icy, but if he examined closely, there were other things. Worry. Care. And there was something. Something he didn’t comprehend. Then the realization dawned in them. Horror. Mycroft knew. Knew that Sherlock had overdosed on purpose. He didn’t know what to expect at this point, he had only served to lure Mycroft here. Had picked a convenient alleyway nearby, where there was enough foot traffic to bring him to the A&E in a timely manner.
> 
> Mycroft doesn’t say anything. Instead, his hand still remained in his. It’s not a loose hold, but a surprisingly tight one. As if he were to let go, Sherlock would drift off never to be seen again.
> 
> Sometime later, he was in a private room. Negotiated for by his brother. He still felt weak, cold and fatigued, but he did spend some minutes lying in subzero temps on a grimy stone-paved alleyway. 
> 
> He was alone. And suddenly, very much afraid. 
> 
> Did Mycroft abandon him here?
> 
> No. In the distance, he heard Mycroft’s voice. Over the phone, perhaps. 
> 
> And then the door opens, letting in the light. And big brother. The door closed again, and soon Mycroft was fiddling around with the various contraptions attached to his hospital bed, before finally finding the light switch. Big brother was doing well. Sherlock could see. New three-piece suit. New tie. New haircut. More noticeably, the cloak of confidence he wore. 
> 
> It seemed that with every step, there was a diplomat cowering somewhere in the world, a government on the verge of toppling and benevolence being bestowed upon a disaster-hit nation. He had lost weight and gained it back in the form of muscle. His hair was somehow mussed as if someone had tousled it. Sherlock had the sense that big brother had been lying in a bed somewhere, about to partake in sexual congress. 
> 
> “Who is it?” Sherlock rasped, beating his brother to the punch.
> 
> “What?” Mycroft focused his attention on him, deliberately misunderstanding him. “I am your brother, obviously.”
> 
> “How would I know? It’s not like you call. Text. Or visit.” Sherlock took another route. 
> 
> His brother flinched at that. Guilt. A point to Sherlock. Mycroft’s face reconstituted itself, returning it to its default poker state. “We need to talk.”
> 
> “Oh, goodie!” Sherlock tried to sound nonchalant. But it came out resentful and weak. “About what? That my drug use is going out of control? That you have a tidy little spot in a fancy foreign rehab waiting for me? That I am spoiling your pristine image, brother  _ dear?” _
> 
> Mycroft looked at him for a long time in silence. 
> 
> Just as Sherlock thought he was going to leave, Mycroft sat down instead. Next to him. His hand reached for his again. He felt the warmth of Mycroft’s fingers curling around his cold hand not connected to the pulse-oximeter. It was a much needed touch. Minutes elapsed, marked by the clicks of the IV pumps before Mycroft spoke again.
> 
> “You did this on purpose.” 
> 
> “No, I have a drug prob –” Sherlock started insistently before trailing off, noticing some sort of emotion in his brother’s eyes. They seemed… sad. 
> 
> “Sherlock.” Mycroft roughly reached over and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. 
> 
> Sherlock offered some token resistance, but he was too weak to fend off Mycroft’s manhandling. In the crook of his elbow there were a series of ugly reddish-pink scabs and colourful bruises where he had injected earlier. But every other mark on his flesh was old and long healed, and it didn’t take a genius to deduce that Sherlock had been on the straight and narrow until recently. 
> 
> “Do you have marks… anywhere else?” Mycroft’s tone was grave. 
> 
> His eyes fixated on Sherlock’s and Sherlock cannot help but shake his head. “No, Mycroft. I-I don’t have a drug problem. I have a –” He looked up imploringly at his brother.
> 
> “Still?” 
> 
> There fortunately was no mockery in his tone. Sherlock didn’t think he would have been able to take that. A hand gently reached up and cupped his face. A finger rubs tenderly against one of his cheekbones. Sherlock leaned into it, and his brother continued, letting his hand slide up into his locks. God. How good that felt! 
> 
> “I tried. Mycroft. I really did.” Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to memorize the sensation. “I… graduated. Top of my class. Published. Got a job. Clinical lab. Somewhat interesting. Made a small name for myself…” He laughed lightly. As much as his condition allowed him to. “Tried… dating.” He made a face. “People… they are intolerable. Mummy… even more so. And you… you disappeared off the face of the Earth! Your number was unavailable. And… I thought…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. 
> 
> Mycroft continued with his caresses. It was hard to deduce what he was thinking. Sherlock never could quite see through that mask of his. When Sherlock was relaxed and about to fall asleep, his brother said quietly.
> 
> “You will go to rehab, little brother. Somewhere quiet. In the Swiss Alps. When you get out, I will join you there on the continent. Understand? We will talk… then.”
> 
> “You… you won’t disappear on me?”
> 
> “No. I will not. I am sorry.” Mycroft said firmly. “Rest, Lock…”
> 
> _ His old nickname… _ Sherlock thought to himself before he felt himself finally drift off.
> 
> ***
> 
> Mycroft stared and stared at Sherlock. 
> 
> Sherlock felt his eyes subtly rake across his form while simultaneously radiating reluctant disappointment. He faced the enormous glass panes that looked out of the luxury chalet with a dazzling view of the Matterhorn, his back turned towards his brother. He had spent a day here already, having been brought up here by two expressionless and humourless men who have the stamp of agent inked all over them. Sherlock had been busy, having left no stone unturned. Trying to find any shred of evidence. For all his thoroughness, all he got was that this chalet was private property, owned by a Lord So-and-so that he had never heard of. 
> 
> Sherlock hadn’t had access to communication from the outside world since he had been (forcibly) shipped off to the posh rehab facility, and the less said of the three weeks he had been in there, the better. 
> 
> “Would you… put on some clothes?”
> 
> “My assets are covered, Mycroft. What more could you possibly want?” 
> 
> Sherlock readjusted the silken ivory bed sheets that he had taken from a spare room. “Unless…” He turned around to face his brother, artlessly letting part of the silk cocoon slip, revealing a strategic slice of his chest and abdominals and just enough pelvis to hint that he wasn’t wearing any pants. “You find me hi –”
> 
> “Sherlock Holmes, put on your pants!” 
> 
> Lovely. 
> 
> Flustered, dumbfounded Mycroft might be one of his favourite Mycrofts. So much better than the icy world-conquering ones. He could see the mask threatening to crumble by how tightly Mycroft tried to hold his facial muscles in place. 
> 
> “Don’t wanna.” He crossed his arms childishly, letting the sheet fall just a little bit more open. 
> 
> “Petulance is unbecoming.” 
> 
> “No, Mycroft.” Sherlock stepped forward, just as Mycroft stepped back – forcing him to stumble into the plush armchair behind him. “Lying to yourself is unbecoming.” 
> 
> “Sherlock…” Mycroft bowed his head slightly as Sherlock crossed the distance between them in a few steps. 
> 
> “It’s safe here, anyways? In Lord blah-blah-blah’s private chalet?”
> 
> “You should have considered that before –”
> 
> “I did. This Lord Hortby –”
> 
> “Lord Willoughby –”
> 
> “Lord Willoughby then.” 
> 
> Sherlock noticed the protective veneer that accompanied Mycroft’s tone. Interesting. That man meant something to brother dear. A lover? A friend? An older man. Sherlock had found photos of the family. With a wife and three young children. 
> 
> He allowed the rest of the sheet to slip down to his waist, allowing his hips to sway just enough. Another quick move, and he was straddling his brother’s lap. Mycroft doesn’t fight him. Instead, he reached upwards and traced his fingertips down Sherlock’s sternum – from the manubrium to his navel. Sherlock shivered, while Mycroft’s eyes seemed to be looking at him with an intensity that reminded him of that night so long ago at the Lake District. 
> 
> “Were I better brother, Sherlock – I would have never partaken of you that weekend. Never watched you pleasure yourself in your childhood cradle during that Christmas –”
> 
> “Boring.” Sherlock interrupted, earning a small smile from his brother. “Tell me what you would do if you were the worst of brothers.”
> 
> “We can’t do this often, Lock. Once a year at the maximum. We… can’t afford to –”
> 
> “You mean you can’t.”
> 
> “My terms or none at all. Take it or leave it.” Mycroft whispered harshly. The mood had changed so rapidly, and Sherlock could feel bile rise up from his insides and to his throat as the prized carrot had been yanked out of reach. His brother had an iron-clad grip on his wrist, preventing him from dashing off. “I was going to set the terms out from the outset, but I wasn’t expecting you to come to the negotiation table in your most fetching birthday suit –”
> 
> “I was wearing a bed sheet!” 
> 
> “I am sorry, Lock. I’ve considered it from every angle. It’s too risky. And –”
> 
> “You expect us to see other people in the meanwhile. Good god, Mycroft – are you whoring your way up the ladder?” 
> 
> Mycroft doesn’t say anything within the next few seconds to refute the claim which was as good as an admission in Sherlock’s book. 
> 
> “I don’t expect you to understand.” Mycroft replied carefully. “But I do promise you that once a year, for however long we have – I will be yours in whichever capacity you wish. Or need. Provided that you fulfill your end of the bargain.”
> 
> “Behaving.”
> 
> “I see you understand.” 
> 
> Sherlock doesn’t want to understand. But some part of him does. He knew his big brother had succeeded in gaining a foothold of a position that he had coveted for so long. He wished that they weren’t brothers. Mycroft was already making a huge sacrifice by being here with him. In this capacity. But it was better than nothing. Better than the past year where Mycroft had vanished out of his life. And he knew that Mycroft had known that Sherlock would take the offer, no matter how meager it was for him. 
> 
> It wasn’t fair. 
> 
> But it was what it was.
> 
> His brother slid his hand against Sherlock’s cheek. 
> 
> “I am sorry, Lock. I really am.” Mycroft said earnestly. 
> 
> His hand continued to touch him, soothing him – making him feel good despite himself. 
> 
> When Sherlock leaned into his touch – a silent ask for more, Mycroft whispered. “You are so, so gorgeous – Lock. All wrapped up for me in silk. Would you like me to tell you what I would do to you if I were not such a scrupulous big brother?”
> 
> Sherlock allowed his head to loll against his brother’s cashmere-clad shoulder, breathing in Mycroft’s scent. “Tell me then.”
> 
> “God, I would eat you.” Mycroft’s breath was hot against his ear. “Devour you.” 
> 
> There was a kiss next to his ear, his cheek, his neck – getting increasingly wetter and longer as his brother progressed. 
> 
> “I fantasized about this, Lock. Seeing you under the light of the moon. In my bed.” Another potentially bruising kiss near his clavicle. His hands ran down Sherlock’s sensitive sides ever so tortuously – causing him to sigh. His fingers exerted just the right amount of pressure, drawing shapes. “I would wonder – just how I would take you apart? So many possibilities. So many permutations.” 
> 
> There was just something in Mycroft’s tone of voice. The silk? The slightest hint of authority? The same authority that compelled Sherlock to rebel time and time again, only to now be used in such a devastating way against him? Whatever it was, it caused the familiar ache to reappear – that longing for his brother that refused to go away since Sherlock had been aware of it at the tender age of sixteen. 
> 
> “God… Mycroft. Really?” 
> 
> Sherlock found it hard to gasp out the words. His breathing had slowed, and the revelation (whether or not it was true was another matter to ponder upon for another day) that his brother spent his lonely evenings in bed, thinking about him – Sherlock rather than his political exploits while looking out his window at the moon is enough to spark a warmth that perfused his entire being. 
> 
> “Yes, really.” Mycroft looked at him, his eyes darkening with arousal. 
> 
> “Tell me. Tell me more.”
> 
> “Well. If you insist… Perhaps I would lick you. All over.” 
> 
> Mycroft’s tongue brushed suggestively against the sternocleidomastoid of Sherlock’s neck, before dipping down to draw slow leisurely circles around the hollow of his neck. Sherlock was sinking, sinking into a fog of need and want – trying so damned hard not to arch his hips upwards, which would cause the sheet to fall so that he could rut against his brother’s jumper. 
> 
> In contrast to Sherlock’s disordered state, his brother continues as if narrating Her Majesty’s coronation. So calm, smooth – emphasizing the posh sort of decadence that his own accent had taken on since working in the hallowed halls of Whitehall.
> 
> “It’s a beautiful day, is it not? The sun is luminous. The snow dazzles. The Matterhorn looms high above us –” 
> 
> Sherlock lets out a whimper when his brother toyed with one of his pink nipples, rolling it gently betwixt his fingers and pinching, giving his overladen senses something sharp to focus on. 
> 
> “Could you imagine in the days of yore? It was a peak that refused to be conquered. An impossibility. A symbol of majesty and daring legend. Nature’s rendition of the Egyptian pyramids that far eclipses our own meager capabilities. Sculpted over millennia. It was one of our tenacious countrymen who made the first successful ascent on the Swiss side in 1865. An Edward Whymper summited it in fury. Having learnt that his close colleague Carrell had decided to make an attempt without informing him after rejecting his previous proposals to climb it together.” 
> 
> A wet-slurpy (filthy) sort of kiss soothed the abused bud, before he teased the other. Sherlock moaned, rolling his hips, just wanting to give in, but a hand forestalls him – resting gently against his chest. It is rather jarring, having his brother spin him a yarn of adventure as he had done so many times in Sherlock’s toddler-days while being tormented in such a grown-up manner. 
> 
> “Patience.” Mycroft chuckled as he chided. “So Edward hurried. ‘Now or never!’ He thought. Picked his companions, stormed up the mountain and performed the impossible. He won. Managing to reach the top before Carrell did. But at a price, for four of his men fell to their deaths on the descent. Three bodies were recovered, but one was never given up by the mountain. But, Lock…” Mycroft’s tone changed again, coloured darker. Silkier. “You know about my lack of inclination for legwork. You know that I would rather… feast.” How such everyday words could sound so dirty was beyond Sherlock. “But for you… perhaps I ought to carry you over to the windows. Press your body against its panes. Spread your thighs out wide. Ah… that’s it.” 
> 
> Mycroft smiled (somehow both softly and sharply at once), pleased when the bed sheet finally dropped from Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock gave in, rubbing his aching cock against his brother’s belly. 
> 
> “You would be begging. What for, I wouldn’t be able to decipher from your excited speech. Perhaps your needy cock would be already staining the window in anticipation. I wonder how many pairs of ruined pants you possess, knowing how you leak when you envision me besmirching you, little brother –”
> 
> “Oh god. Please. Please… Please!” Sherlock mumbled, fisting his brother’s jumper in desperation.
> 
> “Mm… you like that, nasty boy. Then you would perhaps like to know that the scene ends with your arse stuffed full of my cock. Maybe I will offer you a generous thrust or two, depending on how lazy I am feeling –” 
> 
> “Bastard.” Sherlock gasped.
> 
> “I will leave you to sort it out. God knows that you’ve fantasized about it enough. Perhaps you would hump my appendage, practically bouncing on it until you sobbed. Maybe you will curse me while trying to reach over to grab my hips so that you could guide it to your sweet spot. And then I would suggest that you adjust  _ your _ hips a bit to achieve our mutual satisfaction –”
> 
> “You could… at least offer a hand.” It all comes out in one shuddery breath.
> 
> “I could, couldn’t I? But you know me, I don’t like to get my hands dirty.” 
> 
> “Fat, sodding, lazy, annoying –”
> 
> “You do know exactly how to inspire a man, Lock. But you will climb in glorious fury to the summit, just as Edward Whymper did all those years ago.”
> 
> “God, please.”
> 
> “Better.” Mycroft said, still placid. Seemingly untouched by Sherlock’s wild state. 
> 
> But Sherlock knew better. How his brother’s eyes dart around, seeming to catch and memorize every change. Storing information for a wank bank. Mycroft’s hands reach over to squeeze his buttocks, letting one finger slip tantalizingly between his crack, and this spurs Sherlock forward, needing to find some resolution. 
> 
> “You will capitulate. It is only polite to do so after your brother has so kindly decided to fill and  _ fuck  _ your sweet greedy arse –”
> 
> And he came after Mycroft’s fingertip slid salaciously against his hole. Boneless, he sagged into the mess and Mycroft’s now-ruined jumper. An arm wrapped tightly (possessively) around him and his brother murmured against his forehead before pressing his lips against it. “Good boy. Nasty, filthy boy.  _ My _ Lock.” 
> 
> If he closed his eyes then, Sherlock could pretend that Mycroft was his.

Sherlock blinks at himself in the mirror. God. He looks so old. So tired. But he looks presentable, so he ought to stop dawdling and go. 

Shaking his head, he walks out of his room. He listens to ensure that Mrs Hudson still hasn't sneakily returned from her annual visit to her sister’s out in the wilds of Scotland before he grabs his Belstaff and scarf and strides out. 


	4. Chapter 4

> The snow was frigid against his back. But Sherlock clung doggedly on, trying to pin his brother against the ground. He wasn’t going to lose. He hated losing. Big brother had managed to get a lot stronger since they had physically wrestled last; the naturally soft parts of Mycroft’s being were concealing newly minted muscle. 
> 
> There was a triumphant warcry, and Sherlock abruptly found himself blinking dumbly up at Mycroft. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of icy ruthlessness emanating from his brother’s eyes, but they immediately softened as he seemed to remember where he was. 
> 
> Wind-chapped lips met his, and Sherlock allowed Mycroft to kiss him. 
> 
> Sherlock shivered, and Mycroft tutted. “You are cold, brother mine. We should head inside.”
> 
> ‘No.’ He wanted to say, but his teeth chattered instead. 
> 
> He found himself being lifted up by Mycroft and forcibly brought to the chalet they had stayed at for the past three days. Their time together was going to draw to a close, and Sherlock had really no desire to go back to England. 
> 
> His brother stripped him quickly of his wet clothes, and soon Sherlock was bundled up in luxurious furs, being warmed up next to a roaring fire. Mycroft brought cocoa for the both of them several minutes later. Sherlock sipped at the hot beverage, cuddling against his brother – who seemed to permit any sort of contact from Sherlock. 
> 
> God. What was he going to do in the intervening months between today and the next year? 
> 
> The past three days had been vibrant. Full of fun, teasing, games and sex. Affection too. He doesn’t doubt that Mycroft is fond of him. There was no way Mycroft would have permitted this to happen otherwise, but Sherlock wasn’t naive or stupid enough to think that Mycroft held him in the same regard as Sherlock did. He looked away from his brother for a moment, but Mycroft’s hand gently touched his cheek and turned his head toward him.
> 
> “Courage, Lock.”
> 
> He doesn’t want to be courageous. Was it too much to ask for something so many took for granted? To be together with the one man he had ever wanted? But none of this bitterness escaped his lips, knowing that it would mar what had otherwise been a perfectly happy day. 
> 
> Instead, he closed his eyes and buried his face into Mycroft’s shoulder, hoping that the scent of their Swiss holidays would sear into his brain. Hoping that it was enough to tide him over in the barren months to come.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The answer to his problem had been simple.
> 
> Drugs.
> 
> Sherlock tried marijuana first. It relaxed him, but he hated how slow the drug made him become. So he turned to an old friend: cocaine. He preferred it, as it kept him sharp and fast-witted. 
> 
> It kept him interested in life. 
> 
> Before this second experiment with drugs, Sherlock had struggled to keep some semblance of regular life. He rented a flat at the unfashionable Montague Street. Found another job at another clinical laboratory. It was all a farce, as Sherlock had absolutely no interest in anything he had attempted to do. Mycroft did text him, but he ignored these texts, finding it far too painful to think about those four perfect days that shone so brilliantly in his mind. 
> 
> And then he stumbled upon the second possibility.
> 
> Lestrade.
> 
> There was a dead body in an alleyway a few blocks away from where he lived. As he examined the corpse, the fount of information came to him readily. A young girl. Or perhaps, woman. Objectively pretty. Not a hooker. More likely to be a young heiress from an oppressive conservative family of some high standing. Her clothes were meant to look cheap, but Sherlock could see the quality behind them. Her arm was splayed protectively against her belly, suggestive of pregnancy. Too soon to show, but late enough that the legal window for abortion is waning. And that she had no intention to get rid of it.
> 
> It was an ugly murder. Crude. Premeditated but done in anger. Her head bashed in by something blunt. Like a crowbar. 
> 
> She had never seen it coming. 
> 
> “Hey, you! Get out of our crime scene!” 
> 
> Huh? Sherlock looked around, feeling as if he were in a thick fog. He hadn’t even noticed the yellow tape that he had just sauntered by, having deemed its existence irrelevant. 
> 
> “It’s the murderer!” Someone with a camera yelled triumphantly, while another woman scrutinized him with distaste and said. “Good God, Gerrad – he’s just one of the local druggies. Look how blown his pupils are –”
> 
> “You imbeciles. Obviously, I am not the murderer. That is plain to see. And it’s not her boyfriend either, if that’s what you lot are thinking.” Sherlock tutted, exasperated with their slow-wittedness. “No imagination whatsoever in the detecting forces these days. Even I could tell you who killed her – just as I can tell that you’ve spent some time on your knees this morning, sucking someone –”
> 
> “Oi, shut up – you fucking junkie!” Gerrad goes pink in the face. “No one insults my girl!”
> 
> Sherlock tried to duck, but he hadn’t been paying enough attention to the positioning of the forensic photographer’s arm, and he caught the blow with his cheek. 
> 
> “Just what is going on here? Sheppard! Donovan! What is the meaning of this?” A middle-aged man strided forward, displeased. 
> 
> “Sir, we found this junkie loitering about your crime –”
> 
> Sherlock jumped in, still clutching his face. “As I was saying, Detective Inspector – before your ruffans assaulted me – your victim is in her twenties. A foreign national who is here for her studies at UCL. A young woman from a wealthy family who has gotten into some boy-trouble –”
> 
> “Are you seriously going to listen to him, Sir –”
> 
> “Enough. Silence. Let the man speak, Donovan.”
> 
> “You will find that she’s pregnant, and was planning on telling her boyfriend about her situation today. However, her parents have caught wind of it, and dealt with it as according to their primitive traditions.” Sherlock made a face. “She’s dishonoured them, and that’s as good as dead in their book. Rather than her boyfriend, I think you will find that she has a cousin with the same surname that lives in London. He will be an engineer of some sort. He is the one that has been tapping her phone and arranged this rendezvous under the pretense that it would be her boyfriend that is here to meet up with her –”
> 
> “Detective Inspector – this story is a load of poppycock!” Gerrad (or rather Sheppard) insisted. “It’s fantastical! The ravings of a –”
> 
> “It’s not my fault that your idiocy blinds you from seeing the bloody truth!” Sherlock turned his attention to Sheppard, feeling rather incensed. “It’s as clear as day! And I am not a druggie. I am a functional user.” 
> 
> He wasn’t exactly sure what other things he spouted out afterwards (surely more deductions and insults), but it ended up with him getting marched away (dragged) from the scene by an exasperated Lestrade, who sat him down at the front of his cruiser. 
> 
> “You sure what you said was the truth?” Lestrade runs his fingers tiredly through his slightly greying hair. 
> 
> Sherlock nodded gravely. “Yes, as certain as your wife is sleeping with her yoga –”
> 
> “Keep your answers to the questions –”
> 
> “Holmes. The name is Sherlock Holmes.” 
> 
> “Holmes.” Lestrade opened and closed his fist, trying to resist an urge to swing it somewhere. Sherlock did remember that Lestrade hadn’t bothered to refute the statement about his wife’s infidelity. It was a known fact then. “I ought to have you clapped in cuffs, Holmes. Unlawful trespassing. Being under the influence of illegal drugs –”
> 
> “I could also file a case of assault toward a vulnerable –”
> 
> Lestrade held up his hand in surrender. “Sheppard will be dealt with accordingly. But the long story short, is that you seem like a bright lad. Too bright to be ruining your life in this common fashion. I will follow up on your er… deductions and see where they go. But the next time I see you high as a bloody kite – into gaol you will –”
> 
> “Go.” Sherlock finished listlessly, just as a shiny black car pulled up to the kerb. 
> 
> This was new. 
> 
> He mused as Lestrade handed him a business card. A sign that Lestrade was interested in his skills. A sign that he wanted Sherlock to work for him. 
> 
> Maybe this was a more viable solution than whatever he had tried previously. To pass the time. 
> 
> Mycroft has never come for him personally like this. Not since his overdose almost half a year ago. 
> 
> Lestrade watched the progress of the car warily; Sherlock could tell that he knew enough that there was someone Very Important inside, and that they hadn’t come for him, but rather Sherlock. 
> 
> “Regretfully, it seems that I have to go.” Sherlock shook his head, finding that he would rather stay with Lestrade than enter the Jag. 
> 
> He should have known that Mycroft wouldn’t leave him alone.
> 
> “Who is it?” Lestrade asked curiously.
> 
> “An archenemy.” Sherlock replied dismissively, standing up from the cruiser. He reflexively straightened his clothes, preparing himself mentally for battle. He tossed one more look at the Detective Inspector before he got into the waiting vehicle. “I will be in contact with you.”
> 
> * * *
> 
> “Mycroft.” Sherlock said stiffly after he climbed into the dark leather seat across from his brother. 
> 
> “What is the meaning of this, Sherlock?” Mycroft kept his voice quiet, although Sherlock could hear the underlying annoyance.
> 
> What has he interrupted now in Mycroft’s packed schedule? 
> 
> “I was only being a good citizen, brother. Helping the police solve a crime.” Sherlock crossed his arms, looking toward the dark-tint of the windows. Trying to look as nonchalant as possible.
> 
> “You are lucky that that Detective Inspector has a bleeding heart, Sherlock. Any other and you would be hauled off to jail in a jiffy for being a coked-up lunatic. I’d say you got off lightly with only a punch to the face. I am exceedingly disappointed with you.”
> 
> “No I wouldn’t.” Sherlock’s tone was sharp. It was amazing how being in the presence of Mycroft could kill his buzz so fast. “That’s why you are here, isn’t it? To save me from the consequences of my own actions? To play saviour? Or rather, God? To ensure that your junkie of a little brother isn’t ruining your lofty career aspirations…?”
> 
> Mycroft cuts him off. “Why aren’t you responding to my texts? After you complained that I ignored you? I could have helped –”
> 
> Bitterness arose in Sherlock’s throat. He swallowed it down, feeling queasy. 
> 
> Masking this moment of weakness, he laughed harshly. “You can’t help me, Mycroft. No one can. Besides what can you possibly offer? Your disappointment? Another stint in rehab? A prescribed course of  _ fucking? _ ” 
> 
> He could see his brother wince as his words find their mark. Good. Mycroft had at least some sort of conscience. The Jag was slowing down now, and he could see the familiar rundown buildings that characterized his neighbourhood. Before he took the opportunity to flee, he added levelly. “What’s the point of being a God if you can’t do what you want?” 
> 
> “I won’t let you destroy yourself, Sherlock. I won’t allow you to.”
> 
> _ We will see about that. _
> 
> Sherlock mused darkly as he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

It’s snowing again. 

The winds buffet the flakes playfully, giving them a gravity-defying impression. Sherlock slams the door of the black cab and walks the few blocks over to Mycroft’s, doubling back occasionally to throw off (imaginary) pursuers. 

He shivers, pulling the Belstaff tighter against himself. 

Idly, he wonders what Lestrade is up to. Would he be with his daughter? The younger one who still cared to speak to him? Or would he be alone, holed up in his office at New Scotland Yard catching up on paperwork? Reflecting on his loneliness? Lestrade would do that. He’s the introspective sort. After all it’s usually quiet during this time of year. The criminal elements liked to celebrate the holidays as much as anyone else from Sherlock’s own experiences, unless they wanted to attempt something cliché on New Year’s. 

Would Lestrade miss him when he’s gone? Mrs Hudson certainly will. Rosie would. The others… Sherlock isn’t so sure. And he won’t dare guess what Mycroft would feel. 

Relieved? Mycroft had given him the opportunity of living on with John at Sherrinford like the good old days. It’s only right that he gives Mycroft the opportunity to ascend to the Godhood he had so craved throughout his career. 

After all, he’s the only thing that stands between Mycroft and true invulnerability. 

There are times where Sherlock falters, and this is one of them. 

He’s back in that awful room again. 

Mycroft. John. Himself. 

Although at times it seems that John had ceased to exist and it was only him and brother dear. The acrid smell of gunpowder lingers in his nostrils even though Sherrinford had taken place almost a year ago. There had been a moment. A moment where time had frozen and the masks that Mycroft and he both wore had seemed to dissipate, allowing them to look at each other face-to-face in a way they hadn’t since Sherlock had been sixteen. Mycroft had accepted his death then, Sherlock had felt, but there had been something in his eyes. Wistfulness? Regret? It could easily be his brother’s feelings toward his career; that he hadn’t achieved the heights that he had wanted to soar at. 

But there was also… affection. 

What did Sherlock ever mean to Mycroft? 

It’s the question that he had tried to deduce over the past decades. 

It was the reason why there were times where Sherlock had hated Molly. Despised her. Molly who had loved him with a fervour that was borderline insane. Molly who would do anything for him. Molly who could publicly wear her heart on her sleeve and be pitied for it. 

Because at the end of the day, they had both managed to fall in love with the last person they ought to have fallen for. Only that Sherlock would have to take his folly to the grave. And no one would ever know the depths of his repressed feelings. At least Molly knew where she stood while Sherlock may never have such a luxury.

> If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

> “I haven’t partaken, Mycroft – I swear.” Sherlock gave his brother a weak but frantic look on the bed when he approached, trying to gesticulate to the folded paper of lab results that boasted his cleanliness on the nightstand.
> 
> “I know. I know. You are ill.” Mycroft said placatingly as he sat down on the bed next to him. 
> 
> “Only a cold.” Sherlock sneezed violently before enfolding the blankets tighter around his frozen person. 
> 
> “If you say so, brother dear.”
> 
> “I am sorry you dragged us all the way across the world only for me to fall victim to a handful of measly and inconvenient ribonucleic acids.” Sherlock tried to hide the disappointment from his face. 
> 
> “There’s no need to apologize.” A cool hand touched his feverish forehead, tenderly brushing his forelock out of his face. 
> 
> Sherlock was surprised. He had expected Mycroft to leave him to his own devices to suffer considering how Mycroft abhorred getting his perfectly manicured hands dirty. Especially with germs. God forbid that the British Government caught the common cold (or rather the flu!). 
> 
> There must be a long list of things that Mycroft had put off to be here with him that could be done in this comfortable wooden cabin. 
> 
> “Shush, Lock, don’t think. Thinking is not required right now. It isn’t conducive to healing.” 
> 
> “And this… from you?”
> 
> Mycroft doesn’t say anything more, but he stood up after Sherlock had been adequately soothed to fetch a wet washcloth to wipe the cold sweat from Sherlock’s brow.
> 
> * * *
> 
> “You need a shower.”
> 
> “Don’t wanna.” Sherlock mumbled petulantly into his pillow.
> 
> “No offense, but you smell horrendous…”
> 
> “Oh, am I disturbing your beauty sleep?”
> 
> “Come on, you lump.” Mycroft dragged him out of bed. “You’ve been just lying here for the past three days. Trust me, you will feel better.”
> 
> Sherlock kept his mouth shut, not wanting to argue.

It had never been a spoken rule, but these arrangements were an universe unto themselves. Whatever happened between them outside this special time remained outside, and whatever happened within them, stayed within. 

There was a surreal quality to them. Like living through a dream or indulging in a drug-laden fantasy. Where Sherlock would question whether or not certain things had happened after the arrangement had ended. 

He still remembers this. 

How his brother had pulled him into a hot shower as soon as Sherlock’s dirty garments were stripped off his person and how he had sighed when Mycroft began to wash him from head to toe. The water had felt marvelous against his skin, even making it easier to breathe. How he had purred when Mycroft shampooed and conditioned his hair and had gradually sunk into his touch when he applied the body wash. At the end, his brother was essentially holding onto him with both arms while Sherlock had buried his face against Mycroft’s shoulder. The generous stream of water had continued to cascade downward. It had seemed far more intimate than the fun they had in the previous ‘Arrangement’.

Sherlock had no idea how long they stood there, but these were moments that could never last long enough. Where he could pretend that he had someone who loved him. Who cared for him dearly in the way that mattered. In the way he had so desperately craved for. 

He tries not to think too hard about the transience of these arrangements. He doesn’t want these temporary illusions to be shattered with the words that Mycroft had used to describe the ‘Arrangement’ when he had initially proposed it. But of course, the harder he tries to put them out of mind, the more viciously they seem to want to pop. Sherlock had tried to drown out these words more than once with a suitable application of heroin.

> “I will be yours in whichever capacity you wish. Or need.”

They are both excellent actors. Magnificent liars. Brilliant conversationalists who are experts at talking about everything except for what truly mattered. If there is something Mycroft is brilliant at, it is pretending. Telling people what they wanted to hear. Selling illusions. In order to accomplish his own secret objectives. 

This isn’t a conversation that Sherlock wishes to revisit. The last thing he wants to hear is that his precious kaleidoscope of memories is all grounded in lies. 

But still, he wonders. 

_ What more closely approximates the truth?  _

Their day-to-day interactions?

> “You disapprove.” Sherlock crossed his arms defensively, minding his peripheral IV.
> 
> They were in another A&E. 
> 
> Bart’s. 
> 
> “If you wanted intrigue and excitement, you could work for me instead.” Mycroft looked at him in that all-superior manner. “Much safer.”
> 
> It was the first appearance of ‘The Brolly’. A custom-made variant of fine malacca wood and black polyester. 
> 
> The symbology was questionable. 
> 
> Sherlock had still remembered enough of his A-Level history to know that the most important brolly involved in British politics had been carried by Chamberlain when he had signed the Munich Agreement which led to the annexation of the Sudetenland by Nazi Germany. An attempt at appeasement that backfired in a most spectacular fashion. 
> 
> Perhaps it’s a reminder of past mistakes. Yet he cannot deny that the brolly suits Mycroft. A gift perhaps? Perhaps by this Lord Willoughby person? 
> 
> Sherlock tempered his jealousy and replied (honestly). “I think I would be dead faster if I worked  _ under  _ you.” 
> 
> Distance was safer. 
> 
> Both physically and emotionally.
> 
> Mycroft’s lips tighten.
> 
> “And what gives you the right to take Lestrade away? Isn’t that an abuse of your powers, big brother? He told me about it the other day. Were you trying to scare him off from working with me?”
> 
> “I-I only wanted what was best for you –”
> 
> “By taking away my choices? Since when were you such an expert on what is best for me?” Sherlock was trying to contain himself, not wanting to draw unwanted attention in this crowded A&E despite them being in a semi-private room. “I thought you wanted me off the drugs. I thought you wanted me to put my talents to some use in this world. And when I found my calling, you wanted to snatch it away from me. You know what – Mycroft, piss off! Leave me alone. Let me be.”
> 
> “You are angry.”
> 
> “No fucking shit, Mycroft.” 
> 
> The more furious Sherlock grew, the calmer his brother seemed to get. 
> 
> It was infuriating.
> 
> “Calm down, Sherlock. The last thing we need is your intracranial pressure to rise and an emergent craniotomy to relieve it. We both know how much you love your curls –”
> 
> “What part of piss off don’t you understand?!?”
> 
> “You aren’t being reasonable.” Mycroft said in a placating manner that only served to dump more kerosene in the inferno. 
> 
> “Don’t touch me!” Sherlock practically howled when Mycroft attempted to soothe him with touch, slapping the hand away before Mycroft could reach the blood-stained wrappings around Sherlock’s head. “And me? Unreasonable? Don’t make me laugh.” 
> 
> “I will give you some time to calm down. Sherlock. You almost died today. Do you realize that?” Mycroft departed through the sliding doors after having said this last piece.

Sherlock had almost walked headfirst into Mycroft’s front door. His arm reaches for the doorbell, but at the last moment, he decides to tackle the security system instead. 

Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door open.

***

***

Mycroft hears his front door open from the living room. 

Ignoring his elevated heart rate, he continues with what he is doing, calmly weaving a strand of lights through the branches of his synthetic Christmas Tree. 

Never mind the fact that all the decorations strewn about on the floor are things that Mycroft had accumulated over the last twenty years and had never touched until this morning. Never mind that Christmas had come and gone already and that the next Christmas Day would occur approximately three-hundred and sixty-three days from now. It is something to do aside from nervously twiddling his thumbs, waiting for Sherlock to show up. 

Gods don’t believe in higher powers. Even Evander had no idea about Mycroft’s later (and more controversial) deeds in his career until he had told him about them before his passing. 

The only true being that had any semblance of a hold on him was Sherlock. 

Is Sherlock. 

And will always be Sherlock. 

But Gods don’t advertise their vulnerabilities. If Sherlock couldn’t put the pieces together, then that is on him, not Mycroft. 

Things are safer that way. Better for little brother to believe what he wants to believe.

But change is coming. 

Not because there is a sudden change in the direction of the wind, but rather the accumulation of everything that has happened over the last few years. The chickens were coming home to roost. And even Mycroft cannot predict where the chips will fall between himself and Sherlock. 

It unnerves him that to this day and age, he cannot reliably predict little brother’s behaviour. Hell, unstable governments had been so much easier to handle! Perhaps his sojourn to Evander’s over the past few weeks had only been a means to prolong the inevitable. 

That truly, deep inside – he is a coward.

> “You will not threaten or harm John and anyone associated with him.” Sherlock stood tall in front of his desk at Whitehall. “John told me what you did, big brother. That you dragged him off into that dingy little warehouse à la Lestrade.”
> 
> “To quote him, little brother. He said. ‘You don’t seem very frightening.’” Mycroft remarked mildly as he seethed inside. 
> 
> It was as close as Mycroft could come to hating someone at that time. The short little army man with the too-cheeky comments who had somehow managed to worm his way into his brother’s otherwise reclusive life. 
> 
> “That’s beside the point. If I hear a single whisper…” Sherlock slapped both of his hands down on the surface of the desk, looking down at Mycroft. “You will never see me again. This, I can promise.”
> 
> The look in Sherlock’s eyes chilled him to the bone. It was unmistakable what Sherlock meant by his words. If Mycroft had known the trouble that that little man and his future damnable wife would have brought to Sherlock’s life in the future, he would have just made him disappear and dealt with the consequences before Sherlock had tied him up with this threat. 
> 
> It would have saved them both grief. And Mycroft, much frustration.
>
>> ‘You’re very loyal, very quickly.'
> 
> He had said to the flatmate, but he hadn’t realized how true the reverse had been. Once again, he had underestimated little brother to his detriment.
> 
> “You are jealous, aren’t you?” Sherlock had asked shrewdly before he departed.
> 
> “Of course not. How could I possibly be of a common man with so little merit.” Mycroft had remarked disdainfully.
> 
> He could see Sherlock’s jaw twitch.
> 
> “I am not your enemy, Sherlock.” Mycroft added quietly, looking down at his hands.
> 
> “The evidence is not conclusive.” Sherlock turned abruptly and walked out.

He could hear his brother shed his garments, unexpectedly making use of the coat stand for his Belstaff, scarf and even… a toque. It’s not Sherlock the whirlwind as Mycroft is accustomed to, but his movements are measured and drawn out. He could practically hear the gears in brother dear’s head turning, but this isn’t Sherlock pondering on a problem. 

It is reminiscence. 

His footsteps are steady. One step. Two steps. The wood creaks on the third step, giving Sherlock pause. Mycroft breathes slower, trying to rein in his body. The lights. He reminds himself. Continuing to separate the strand from the bunched up green coils, he revolves around the tree. Then there is a deep inhalation as Sherlock draws breath sharply, clearly not expecting to see the scene in the living room. Of Mycroft putting together… a Christmas tree of all things. 

Which Christmas is Sherlock thinking about? There are many options. But Mycroft may never know, for it’s an unspoken rule to not talk about previous ‘Arrangements’. 

His brother still hasn’t moved. Still hasn’t spoken. It isn’t in Sherlock’s nature to dawdle, so soon the footsteps are approaching him and Sherlock grabs the end of the light strand, and helps Mycroft wrap the lights around the tree. The coil of tension within the depths of Mycroft’s belly loosens. 

Perhaps they will both survive this, whatever this is. 

***

***

Here is big brother in the flesh. 

Finally.

Sherlock is positive that Mycroft had been ignoring him since Sherrinford. Text messages had been for the most part answered tersely. Anthea blew him off every time he inquired about big brother’s schedule, but Sherlock strongly suspects that she had no idea what Mycroft was doing either with his time. He had known that Mycroft had gone to the funeral for Lord so-and-so. 

> The party was over. If it could be defined as such. 
> 
> Lestrade had been the only guest that had shown. Sherlock had curled upon the recently acquired couch which was still stiff and hadn’t yet conformed to his body like the old one had. It probably never will. He had remained mute and selectively deaf for the evening, ignoring conversation. Brooding with his violin in hand, even though he hadn’t played a single note. 
> 
> John and Lestrade had spent the evening drinking, and with each glass, John had started to air out his grievances. The difficulty of being a single dad. How much he had missed Mary. That Sherlock spent a lot of his time these days staring out a window rather than helping out the general populace. About Molly spending her time alone at Christmas, because Sherlock refused to not be a hard-hearted arse. How bored he was now that he was saddled by responsibility, and that there weren’t even exciting cases to partake in. Mary’s sacrifice had been a waste. John had said, and Lestrade had used that moment to escape the conversation, recognizing that it would go nowhere productive despite how inebriated he was. 
> 
> It was nice to know what John thought of him at this day and age. It certainly made Sherlock’s decision to leave so much easier. Why John thought that after everything that had happened between them could be swept away without repercussions is baffling. That he could go back to his days as a blogger, riding high on adrenaline. That he could expect Sherlock to conjure up cases for his amusement whenever it was convenient for him. There wasn’t exactly a lot of time left over once one factored in John’s work hours and his obligations to his daughter.
>
>> “What goes around, comes around.”
> 
> God. How he had wanted to slap John silly after he had said that. Mycroft had been willing to sacrifice his life for the two of them back at Sherrinford as penance for his sins, and this was what John had to say for it at the end?! 
> 
> Sherlock often wonders what would have happened had he not made that ultimatum to Mycroft. John would be dead by now. Not killed by Eurus’ hand at the bloody well, but by Mycroft’s own after John had first hit him. Mary would have been a non-factor. If she was dumb enough to land herself on Mycroft’s radar, he would have snapped her up and used her as a bargaining chip with the Americans. The CIA were always eager to reclaim and silence their rogue assets after all. It would have made the Magnussen affair even more messy than it had been, but Sherlock would have still made it work without a cover. Instead, Mycroft had befriended her in deference to the adage of ‘keeping your friends close and your enemies closer’. 
> 
> When Lestrade had disappeared, Sherlock had hastily retreated to his room and waited for John to do his crawl of shame up to his room where he would pass out before reclaiming the living room for himself again. Not for the first time this evening, he wonders about Mycroft. How he was faring at the funeral of his old ‘mentor’ (lover, his brain corrects). Did he cry? Did he feel something at his passing?  _ Caring is not an advantage. _ Mycroft had so loved to remind him over and over again. He had texted Mycroft the night before.
> 
> __
>
>> _Merry Christmas. SH  
>  _
>> 
>> _ Likewise, little brother. I take it that you are having the usual party tomorrow? MH _
>> 
>> _ Not willingly. SH _
>> 
>> _ And here I thought that you enjoyed your goldfish. MH _
>> 
>> _ No need to rub it in, Mycroft. SH _
>> 
>> _ At least I never got physically involved with any sort of goldfish. SH _
>> 
>> _ Lord Willoughby was not a goldfish. MH _
>> 
>> _ Oh…? SH _
>> 
>> He could almost see it in his mind’s eye. Mycroft sitting somewhere in the dark, nursing a scotch. His fingers hovering over the screen. Trying to figure out what to say. Perhaps his brother had already revealed too much by his previous text. Figuring he had nothing to lose, Sherlock tried.
>> 
>> _ Did you love him, Mycroft? Be honest. And spare me the lies. SH _
>> 
>> _ Did you love Dr Watson, little brother? MH _
>> 
>> Getting Mycroft to admit or show feelings was probably the most difficult task to accomplish on the bloody planet. And the most thankless. And even when he did, Sherlock had no idea how genuine they were in retrospect. Like most things in life, it only brought a temporary rush.
>> 
>> _ No. SH _
>> 
>> _ You certainly did enough for him, little brother. Lovers have done far less than you had. MH _
>> 
>> _ Fuck off. SH _
>> 
>> He counted to ten, cursing himself for his nimble fingers and lack of control. Damn it. It’s so rare that Mycroft would be willing to hold an extended conversation via text considering how much he loved to hear the sounds of his own voice. 
>> 
>> He tried another topic. 
>> 
>> _ Perhaps you should have told me about the East Wind. I didn’t understand what John represented until recently. SH _
>> 
>> The time ticked by slowly. Sherlock leaned back, wishing that his supply of fags were closer. John would kill him for smoking, but he no longer gives a fig about what anyone thinks. He crossed his arms, wishing that he had fallen for someone who was more emotionally available than a block of dry ice. He would get a dog then in his next life. It’s the least he could do for himself. He would go to Taipei, maybe? Tokyo? Seoul? Somewhere gay-friendly and anonymous? Non-English. Somewhere where he could disappear and Mycroft wouldn’t be able to find him. Not easily at least. He highly doubted that he would get over his brother, but in his older (and hopefully wiser age) he was better equipped to handle it without needing to resort to drugs and adrenaline. 
>> 
>> _ It may be true that Dr Watson was a ‘Victor’ stand-in but don’t delude yourself from the fact that you kept your pet doctor around for so long to get a rise out of me, brother dear. MH _
>> 
>> Why must everything that Mycroft texted have such an incendiary effect on him? Sherlock threw his phone down on the couch and stood up before he could reply back with something else uncharitable. 
>> 
>> He paced. Oscillated. Before he gave it up and went to bed, he texted.
>> 
>> _ The world doesn’t revolve around you, My. SH _
> 
> And now Sherlock was looking at the response.
> 
> _ But yours does. MH _
> 
> It wasn’t a malicious reponse. Only the stone-cold truth. He idly wonders if he had been prone to slapping men like Molly was, how many times would he have slapped his brother? Mycroft would let him. Sherlock was certain. If it had been something he had felt inclined to do. Mycroft had never physically harmed him, but the emotional toll was more than he could bear at times. 
> 
> _ I wish it didn’t. SH _
> 
> _ You deserve better, brother mine. MH _
> 
> _ Are we maudlin tonight? SH _
> 
> _ Or is this the product of copious amounts of alcohol? SH _
> 
> _ It’s not A or B. But rather a fact of A and B. MH _
> 
> _ Goody. How are you faring? SH _
> 
> _ Could you not deduce it? MH _
> 
> _ Broken-hearted? SH _
> 
> _ No. MH  _
> 
> _ Nostalgic? SH _
> 
> _ Yes. But not the way you think. It was never the way you thought it was. MH _
> 
> _ Now you’ve lost me. SH _
> 
> _ Sherlock. You could never think rationally when it comes to Evander. MH _
> 
> _ Nor would I want to. SH _
> 
> _ I wish you would. MH  _
> 
> _ There are lots of things I wish for, and will never get. SH  _
> 
> _ Don’t say that. Your life is far from over. MH _
> 
> Sherlock could feel a tear threatening to drop from his eye. He wiped it away with a vehemence. He won’t cry over Mycroft. Not tonight.

Sherlock is surprised when Mycroft’s arms wrapped around him, but he realized that his brother had only wanted him to put up the tree-topper. A cat holding a star. Mycroft had always preferred cats over dogs unlike Sherlock. Perhaps an early sign of their incompatibility. He sighs when his brother lifts him up and he places the cat in place at the top. 

“You lost weight.” Mycroft says quietly when he brought Sherlock back down to Earth. “Far too much of it.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He has nothing he wants to say. A hand gently cups his cheek, and Mycroft is relearning the contours of his face. Sherlock leans into the caresses, feeling a finger trace the delicate structure of his skull. 

“You won’t even look at me.” Mycroft observes further. 

If Sherlock isn’t dreaming, his brother actually sounds hurt. 

“Tell me what you want, brother mine.” 

> “I am surprised you even bothered showing up, brother.”
> 
> Mycroft was leaning casually against the doorframe of the master bedroom. His arms crossed. 
> 
> “I thought that amongst the likes of Ms Adler, Mr Moriarty and Dr Watson, you were being quite thoroughly satiated.”
> 
> “Hmph. I don’t know about that, Mycroft. Perhaps your little brother had discovered that he’s a satyromaniac –”
> 
> Sherlock didn’t even get to finish his sentence, because his brother was upon him like a demon possessed. The next thing he knew, his mouth was being reacquainted with Mycroft’s tongue, the cool air of their deceased grand-aunt’s villa somewhere in France is in contact with his naked flesh that seldom saw the light of day and the grip that Mycroft has on him is borderline painful. 
> 
> It was only a few days ago where they had been in the morgue at Bart’s, identifying Irene’s fake dead body. Molly had watched them, unaware of the nature of the tension that stretched taut between them. 
> 
> He had despised cases that involved the Royal Family. Fucking leeches they were on society, along with the rest of the aristocracy. But Irene had been a godsend, considering how much Mycroft seemed to despise her. It was a hate that had become… personal. Sherlock had used her, as much as she had used him. A different sort of game, and it had been enlightening somewhat to see if Mycroft had been willing to throw him to the wolves, or to commit treason himself to protect him. Sherlock’s revenge for those few sentences at Buckingham (and for Mycroft forcing him to take the bloody case in the first place, trying to take advantage of Sherlock’s sentiment for him). To protect someone absolutely unworthy. 
>
>> “Don’t be alarmed. It has to do with sex.”
>> 
>> “Sex doesn’t alarm me.”
>> 
>> “How would you know?”
> 
> He had behaved like a flustered little helpless virgin. But he had solved the problem at the end of Irene’s precious phone (soft-hearted fool that he was!), and Mycroft had been able to salvage the situation and escape relatively unscathed.
> 
> The progress was frantic, messy and hasty. Adjectives that he would have never dared to have associated with Mycroft until now. His brother’s kisses had more teeth in them than they used to have, and Sherlock is more than aware that his marks would bruise. And bruise most brilliantly. But fuck, it was hot and if anyone caught sight of any of these marks, he would say Irene had left them. After all, no one is really supposed to know if she was dead or not. 
> 
> “Someone… is… a… little… jealous.” Sherlock mumbled, as Mycroft attempted to silence him with his own mouth. 
> 
> “The fuck I am.” 
> 
> Mycroft had nudged Sherlock’s thighs apart with a light tap with some unidentified part of his body just as he had snarled his four words. They had neglected to turn on the lights, and had to make use of the limited natural light coming from the crack in the curtains. A lubricated finger had slipped into his neglected passage. 
> 
> “Yes… get on with it will you? I will show you whether or not sex alarms me.” Sherlock practically hissed the words out. 
> 
> “I am sure you will.” 
> 
> Mycroft said nonchalantly, but the fury that had spurred them on at the beginning seemed to have dissipated. There was regret in his brother’s eyes. 
> 
> Mycroft had known that he had lied at the beginning, did he? Sherlock had often wondered. He had lied about his lack of virginity. Mycroft is, was and will be the only person that will ever fuck him like this. Or perhaps, Mycroft had said what he said at Buckingham in acknowledgement of Sherlock’s lie. Since their ‘Arrangement’ didn’t exist except for a finite amount of time annually, then in that cruel twisted sense, Sherlock was still a virgin. Sherlock had lied originally as he didn’t want either of them to get too sentimental about it, even though the breadth of the sentiment after that fuck in the Lake District had sent him reeling. He had been so naive to think that he wouldn’t have been affected. It had only torn him up further when he had realized that something that had affected him so deeply had probably meant fuck all to his brother.
> 
> But his brother was rocking into him now after having prepared him hastily. Sherlock’s higher executive functions were proceeding to shut down as he chased for that familiar high that only sex with Mycroft could ever bring. The magnificent way his sizable cock rubbed just so against Sherlock’s insides. The way Mycroft’s arms were around him, holding him. It was almost tender. As if Mycroft’s body had wanted to say something that he verbally could not. 
> 
> The end was near. Sherlock had known it at that time. So had Mycroft. The End-Game with Moriarty was approaching. The planning had already begun, even though they hadn’t started meeting behind John’s back yet. This could be the last time they would ever have sex with each other depending on the outcome. 
> 
> Sherlock buried his face against Mycroft’s shoulder and neck, realizing that he couldn’t bear to watch the end. Couldn’t bear to see Mycroft’s face during the throes of orgasm. They would only have this moment before they both had to dash to resume their otherwise untwined lives. It was short, but it was better than nothing. It was dangerous, considering how Moriarty seemed to have made Sherlock’s destruction his highest priority.  Yet it must mean something, considering how hastily they had both snuck out of the country to have a one last fuck. Mycroft could have easily said that it wasn’t wise or safe to do so and Sherlock would have readily agreed. 
> 
> When Sherlock comes, he bites down roughly on Mycroft’s shoulder – choking off all the words he desperately wanted to say. 
> 
> His brother’s fingers were entangled in his curls. There was something soft in his blue eyes. 
> 
> “Don’t you dare think about it. Don't you dare!” Mycroft said quietly but firmly. “Everything will work out. Moriarty will be gone and you will live your life as you’ve always had.” 
> 
> _ What life? _ Sherlock ponders bitterly when his brother ran off to the shower, for their time together was already drawing to a close. There wasn’t even time to cuddle. Lestrade, John, Moriarty, Irene – they were all surrogates to pass the time. Moriarty would be disappointed to learn that Sherlock didn’t hold him with mutual regard. While Sherlock lis tened to the sounds of the shower, he couldn't help but think how English their last exchange was. He hated it. All this ‘keep a stiff upper lip’ nonsense. 
> 
> They were in France for crying out loud!
> 
> But then his brother was back. Dressed in his usual immaculately put-together three-piece suit. Looking as if he hadn’t left behind cum that was still drying in Sherlock’s arse. His hand reached over again to tousle Sherlock’s forelock and he whispered after leaning forward to meet him at eye-level. 
> 
> “You know this, but I will say it regardless. I love you.” 
> 
> And then, he was gone. 
> 
> Leaving Sherlock with a new conundrum to overinterpret and a whole bedroom to clean up.

“There’s nothing in particular that I want.” Sherlock replied listlessly. “Whatever you want is enough for me.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Sherlock…” 

This is worse than Mycroft had imagined it to be. 

His brother’s gaze remains downcast, but he allows himself to be physically manipulated like a ball-jointed doll. How thin he is! How dull and sunken his eyes look! How frail he is! Even his luxurious curls that desperately need a cut appear thinner. He looks ill, even though Mycroft is positive that Sherlock isn’t in any danger of passing away from some deadly malady. He would know if that is the case. 

Whatever it is, something is definitely wrong.

He remembers all his Sherlocks. The defiant ones. The playful ones. The passionate ones. Even the determined one at Sherrinford who had been prepared to shoot himself at the end. 

This one… lacks something. Or rather seems like he's a million miles away from here. Or even worse, Sherlock had given up. 

On what, Mycroft is unsure of. 

Life? 

Love?

Those wishes that Sherlock had alluded to via text recently?

> “Mycroft!”
> 
> Sherlock was clinging onto him for dear life. He was utterly dishevelled and wild in the dingy flat. His eyes were unnaturally bright. 
> 
> “Easy, easy. Sh… brother. All will be fine. It’s almost over. Just Eastern Europe to go.”
> 
> “I thought… that you wouldn’t come.”
> 
> “I tried to come as soon as I could. You know I do my best, Lock.”
> 
> “I know. I missed you. I missed you so much.” Sherlock managed to get out. The way the words came out was almost violent. Mycroft couldn’t imagine the breadth of the horrors Sherlock had seen and even done to survive over the years. Or what it was like to live while suppressing one’s entire identity. “Three fucking years. I miss everything so much. Even bloody tea!”
> 
> Mycroft did his best during those years Sherlock was gone. Keeping track of where and what little brother was doing. Helping out whenever he could from afar. The worst were the weeks where Sherlock disappeared underground. These were the weeks of hell where Mycroft would wait with bated breath to see where he would pop out next. Usually battered, but never broken. 
> 
> He had met up with his brother two other times since Moriarty’s demise and provided whatever it was that Sherlock had needed. In Zambia to nurse his brother after a frightening bout of severe malaria. In Cambodia where Sherlock had wanted Mycroft to pet him, love him and tell him that Mycroft was waiting for him at home. And now… in Havana, where Sherlock was at his most desperate. It was frightening; the years of loneliness and being constantly incognito had taken its mental toll on his brother. Even before Serbia, Mycroft had known that Sherlock was going to have a hard time readjusting to life back at home. 
> 
> “I know. I know.” Mycroft soothed, gently guiding Sherlock back onto the rickety old bed that was probably more detrimental to one’s back than the dirty and hard tiled flooring underfoot. 
> 
> He could only hope that there weren’t bed bugs or any other sort of pestilence, but Sherlock fortunately did not have any bug bites from what he could see in the dimly lit room.
> 
> “Are you still seeing him?” Sherlock asked cautiously.
> 
> “No.” 
> 
> It was the truth, but Mycroft could tell that Sherlock didn’t buy it. But for the sake of the peace, his brother didn’t push further. Even if it was a lie, Mycroft would have told it anyways. 
> 
> “Only you, darling.” 
> 
> Smooch. How soft Sherlock’s lips felt against his. How sinfully sweet. Mycroft had experienced and seen many of the pleasures that the fabulously wealthy and powerful had indulged in, but nothing could compare this sort of bliss. They kiss and kiss, both eager and greedy for more. 
> 
> Each kiss felt like a first time. 
> 
> Each kiss felt like a last time. 
> 
> And in a sense, it was. 
> 
> Not even Gods can predict the future. 
> 
> Sherlock seemed content for Mycroft to lead the way, so Mycroft does, stripping his brother of his unflattering garments. Trying not to react to and stare at his brother’s new collection of scars, and how alarmingly his ribs seem to jut out against his skin. But despite all of this, his brother was still beautiful. Mycroft kissed everywhere he could reach. Sloppy kisses. Teasing kisses. Little nips. Kitten licks. The usual patter of nonsense fell from his lips. Words telling his brother how gorgeous he was. How strong he was. How much Mycroft missed him. How much Mycroft loved him and wanted him in his own bed. 
> 
> These minutes were of the utmost important. Mycroft knew. Sherlock needed these memories to fight against the hard times that loomed ahead. He needed to give him the edge; the will to fight his way back home to England.
> 
> Soon, Sherlock allowed his thighs to fall apart, giving Mycroft a glance of his forbidden spot hidden behind his still-wondrous arse in such a tantalizingly wanton way. In a way that would serve as recurrent wank fodder for Mycroft. There was just the way his brother had managed it, somehow managing to look both shy and needy at once. 
> 
> Mycroft’s nose had followed first. Then his tongue. And soon he was licking, licking and fucking licking unable to get enough of this orifice that continued to land Mycroft into hot water over and over again. Sherlock’s hips were fighting to hold still, but Mycroft still finds himself struggling to draw breath at times, when his air-supply becomes compromised by Sherlock’s overeagerness for more. Yet, somehow – it only served to heighten everything just that much. There was a feverish dream-like quality to the atmosphere, even though there were obviously better-kept (and even presidential-tier) accommodations within walking distance of this old abandoned flat. Everything seemed to move so slowly which gave Mycroft more than enough time to savour each and every moment, yet he was aware that the passage of time was going quickly. 
> 
> Too quickly.
> 
> “God. Now.” Sherlock demanded with his locks curling wildly against the bed sheet, his cheeks flushed with both exertion and need. 
> 
> And Mycroft was obeying him. Fucking into him with a few direct strokes, forcing the tight muscle to give way. They were both now clinging onto each other with a desperation that neither would ever be able to articulate despite how sweaty they both were. None of them dared to look at each other, just in case all the other saw was despair and tears. Mycroft felt like his heart would shatter into pieces way too small to be assembled again. It made him think of dreams and promises that he wished he could make to his brother. 
> 
> It made him think of those magical days of their previous encounter in Zambia.
>
>> “What was the point of being a God if you couldn’t do what you want?”
> 
> Sherlock had asked him years ago, and Mycroft still didn’t have a suitable answer for him. Instead, he had taken advantage of what opportunities he had to love his brother, and love him well. He knew perfectly well that Sherlock wouldn’t take what he offered at face-value and would rather spend the rest of the year tormenting himself with what sinister ulterior motives Mycroft could have had by continuing their Arrangement.
> 
> “Sherlock.” Mycroft said quietly, knowing that his brother needed to hear his name. Who knows how long since he’s heard anyone say it? “Sherlock.” He repeated, feeling himself about to reach the brink as he tried to fuck him to completion, his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, stroking him. “Cum. Cum for me. Cum for us…”
> 
> His brother sagged against him when he succumbed, reminding Mycroft of the first time he had ever fucked (made love) to Sherlock beneath the moonlight. How long ago that had seemed? Another lifetime ago. Mycroft firmly maintained his grip on his brother, not letting him run as he had the first time. Even though he was positive that this Sherlock would not. He dropped a kiss against his curls, for Sherlock still hid his face. 
> 
> There was so much he had wanted to say. 
> 
> Much of it he couldn’t. 
> 
> He settled for holding him instead. 
> 
> And not for the first time, he wished that things were different.

He leads his brother through the living room, ignoring the mess of Christmas ornaments that had been left behind. 

_ Something has to change. _ Mycroft knows. He just has to figure out what it is that he could change. What it is he is willing to change. What is important? And what is just noise. He pulls his brother up the stairs, ignoring the delicious afternoon tea that he had set up earlier in the kitchen. He highly doubts that Sherlock had any interest in eating or drinking in this state.

But he knows that he has to show Sherlock just how important he is to him. 

It’s now... or never. 

He hears a soft (but sudden) intake of air from his brother when he kicked open the door to his own bedroom. Mycroft had never brought anyone up here before, but he figured he could fulfill at least one promise that he made to his brother, even if it had been made during a time of mutual desperation.

“Why… why did you bring me up here?” Sherlock asks, his voice brittle when Mycroft guides him onto the perfectly made king-sized bed. 

“Do I need a reason?” Mycroft climbs next to his brother. “Sherlock. Don’t look at me like that. Please. I am not playing games with you.”

Sherlock’s eyes scan the room. 

“I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t this.” The words are uttered quietly, as if Sherlock is speaking them to himself. “You don’t even have a photograph of Lord Willoughby in your private sanctum, but you have three… of me.”

“I could have put it away.” Mycroft says just to be contrary.

“I don’t think so. You didn’t plan to bring me up here, originally.”

“No, I didn’t. But it’s long overdue, isn’t it?”

“Mycroft, what are you saying? Are you giving up on your Godliness?”

“I don’t know.” Mycroft says honestly. “Everything has been in shambles after Sherrinford, Sherlock. I haven’t been at my office in Whitehall in almost half a year.”

“You were avoiding me.”

“I was. I am sorry, Sherlock. I really am. I wasn’t wrong the other day. When I wrote that you deserved better. I have many regrets. And most of them revolve around you.”

Mycroft reaches over and messes around with Sherlock’s curls as he had always liked to do. 

“What about Sherrinford disturbed you the most, Mycroft?”

Mycroft laughs. The question should have been what didn’t disturb him about Sherrinford, and the answer would have been nothing. The whole thing had been his fault. And if he had lost everything on that day, he would have deserved it. 

His brother is too far away for his liking.

“Come closer if you want me to tell.”

Sherlock looks at him warily, but he obeys. Mycroft pulls him into his lap and presses a kiss against his forehead. 

“How willing you were to kill yourself, Sherlock.”

“I live dangerously, Mycroft. Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve been confronted by my mortality. And certainly, I wasn’t going to shoot you or John. It was the  _ only _ option.”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything in response. What could he possibly say? It only made the pain worse. All he could be thankful for is that Sherlock is here with him now. He lets his lips brush against his brother’s face again. And again. How still Sherlock remains, accepting every morsel of affection that Mycroft gives him, but not offering any from himself. 

How could he make Sherlock come alive again? 

Or is it too late? 

The icy grip of fear clenches around his heart. He lets his hand touch Sherlock’s face, letting his fingers relearn the features. How his brother’s brow feels beneath his fingertips. The sharpness of his cheekbones. The distinct shape of his pinna. His digits slip into his curls, and he guides Sherlock’s head toward his. Their lips touch tentatively against the other, and Mycroft sighs with pleasure and satisfaction when Sherlock finally reciprocates. Their noses are touching. There is something so slow about how things proceed, yet sweet in a way that Mycroft had never experienced. 

Time is a luxury that hadn’t been gifted to them in the previous years. But they have time. Mycroft has it in the magnitude of days, even weeks but somehow, he knows that Sherlock isn’t planning to stay long. The night if Mycroft is lucky. A strange thought, considering that he knows that Sherlock has no plans. 

His landlady is out in the country. His nuisance of a flatmate had left the country. 

The way that Sherlock kisses him makes Mycroft think that Sherlock is never going to kiss him again after today. It’s wistful, and reminds him of the way that Evander had kissed him the night before he passed. Of old regrets. Of paths not taken. And then there is the way Sherlock touches him. 

As if he’s trying to memorize him. 

As if he is torn between clinging onto him or casting him far far away. 

As if touching Mycroft is burning him from the inside.

Mycroft sees things in snapshots. 

There is the way Sherlock’s body is laid out for him in his own bed. The dark downy quilt that is a perfect foil for alabaster perfection. The surgical scars from the bullet that the bloody Watson had shot into him so long ago. Mycroft would have torn her asunder with his bare hands and ripped out her spawn from her womb if he had had the choice; if Sherlock had not clipped his wings from the beginning. He is a vengeful and wrathful God under select circumstances. 

Those long dexterous fingers. The same fingers that dissected cadavers, made the violin sing, tinkered with experiments and yes – even killed. Not for Watsons, as Dr Watson and everyone else related to the event had been led to believe, but for him. 

For  _ them.  _

He presses reverent kisses against each phalangeal segment, laving each digit with the love they deserved. He worships Sherlock’s body with all he had to give. His brother’s body thaws eventually, leaning and even jerking into his every touch. 

His eyes nonverbally pleading for more. 

He takes his time preparing him, devouring his arse as he preferred. Using his tongue to loosen up the reluctant muscle, eventually adding fingers and lube to ease the way. He decides to make love to him in the missionary position, knowing that Sherlock preferred it. That Sherlock liked being covered by him. Surrounded by him. 

The moment of penetration is intense. Mycroft can never quite prepare himself for how hot and tight Sherlock is. He keeps his eyes on Sherlock’s face as he works his way to the hilt, ensuring that there isn’t any untoward pain. This is quite easily the quietest sex they’ve ever had, and there is something jarring about that. 

It’s as if Sherlock is holding back. 

He’s hiding something. 

And he knows it the moment Sherlock starts grabbing onto him for dear life. 

Sherlock plans to leave. There is a plan. He plans to disappear. Quietly. As early as the next day. Or into the night.

The thing is that Mycroft knows his brother. He knows him better than he knows himself. Nothing Mycroft says would change his stubborn mind at this stage of the game. He leans over to kiss him. 

_I love you._ Mycroft thinks sadly as he continues to rock into him, watching the minute changes on his face. He keeps the tempo adagio, intending to draw this out as long as he possibly could. _I love you._ _Adore you. I failed you._ Another kiss. _I won’t beg you to stay. You deserve your peace. I will give you… time._

He could afford that while he sorts out the ashes of his own life. It’s the least he could do. 

He will watch from afar, like he’s used to doing. 

He could tell by the change in Sherlock’s breathing that the end is drawing near, and he changes the angle of his thrusts, and soon Sherlock had thrown his head back as he climaxed with a silent scream, and Mycroft follows suit – the post-orgasmic contractions around his prick forcing him to give up his seed. 

The words ‘I love you’ are on his lips as the wave of pleasure crashes into him. 

Mycroft collapses next to his brother and gathers his body close to him. Holding him in the way he had wished he had during that gorgeous night at the lake so long ago. 

Where Sherlock had been so sweet and innocent. Where Mycroft had been equally stupid and naive. Thinking that he had known everything, but really he had known nothing worthy at the end. 

> “Ah. Mr Magnussen. A pleasure.”
> 
> “Oh. Mr Holmes. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time. Of course, I know of your old mentor, Lord Willoughby. A fine, fine man in many respects. But of course, what is a businessman to a being such as yourself, hm?”
> 
> “I do not know what rumours you heard of me, but rest assured that I am only a ‘minor government official’. I do –”
> 
> “Balderdash.” Magnussen said with humour. “I know power when I see it, Mr Holmes. I’ve been around quite a bit. Quite a bit, dear man. Now, could I interest you in some tea? I’ve got a lovely vintage of black just given to by an old Russian friend –”
> 
> “I do hate to be rude, but –”
> 
> “Mr Holmes. Trust me. You will want to stay for what I have to say. I do believe that it will prove mutually beneficial.” 
> 
> There was something all too gleeful in the way Magnussen had said his words. It was the first inkling that Mycroft had that something was terribly terribly wrong. 
> 
> “Now, tea?”
> 
> Mycroft was forced to endure the tea. And the finger sandwiches. The Danish had appalling cuisine. Nor would the heinous man do anything but smile his terrible secret little smile until Mycroft did, forcing him to initiate the traditional ritual of tea by plucking the expensive porcelain teacup from the tray while trying to hide his trembling hand.
> 
> The bastard was taking his time, savouring every second that elapsed like an exquisite pleasure that only comes once in a while. Perhaps a lifetime. He was getting off on Mycroft’s immense discomfort. 
> 
> Magnussen knew who he was. And perhaps, understood his standing and importance in the British leviathan. 
> 
> For once, Mycroft’s own stomach was tying itself up into knots in a way he hadn’t experienced since he had been a small fish roaming about the great hallowed halls. 
> 
> He had heard about Magnussen by reputation. A media mogul with treasonous ties that no one could ever definitively prove. A man who had a nasty hobby of blackmailing. His prey being both people and entire countries. And from the shadows, Magnussen and his fellow billionaire friends were sussing out the shades and were slowly trying to bring them under their control. There were rumours from his contacts in every Western country of their activities, and the smoke – Mycroft was realizing was quickly turning into an inferno.
> 
> He summoned his courage, desperate for this audience to end. “So. What are the damages?”
> 
> “You wound me, Mr Holmes. Or should I say: Mycroft. Or would you prefer – Mycie as your brother used to call you?”
> 
> “This is ridiculous.” Mycroft was about to stand.
> 
> “Or does this ring a bell?” Magnussen began to contort his face in the most horrific way, and what followed was the most horrifying minutes of Mycroft’s life (and career) as he bastardized one of the most intimate moments of his entire life. “Say it… Mycroft. I just want to hear it. Just. Once. Please. Say. My. Name.”
> 
> And then the odious man leaned forward and flicked his forehead. 
> 
> Hard.
> 
> “Silly, silly Mycroft. You were the hardest of the lot to crack, but you are mortal just like the rest of these self-styled Gods. Pah.”
> 
> “What do you want?” 
> 
> Mycroft had never hated a man so much in his life. 
> 
> “Nothing.” Magnussen smiled like the Cheshire cat. “You will not interfere in my work. You will not interfere with the media when we start campaigning for Brexit in the coming year. You will stop investigating my staff and my operations in foreign countries. I will be in touch with you Mycroft, to see if there’s anything you could do  _ additional _ for me. You keep me happy, and I will make sure those recordings never see the light of day. I also do traditionally ask the good looking boys to suck my cock, but I think I will pass for today. You are far too gay for my preferences anyways. You would enjoy it far too much for my liking.” He laughed in amusement, while Mycroft internally shuddered with revulsion. “Now, would you like some cake?”

The only cure for blackmail was a bullet to the head. Sherlock had said to him a long time ago. 

And Mycroft had witnessed it firsthand, when Sherlock had shot Magnussen in cold blood right in front of him a few years back. It had been most gratifying to see the wretched man’s face at the end just as his life had flashed before his eyes. Magnussen had realized too late that there was no way out for him to weasel out of the situation. 

A checkmate if you will. 

That’s the problem of having lived a soft life behind the desk while playing with fire. One day one would encounter a creature like Sherlock or even Ms Morstan who had no qualms about violating civilized constructs such as the rule of law and not putting bullets into people. People who operated by the ‘Laws of the Savannah’ as Sherlock liked to put it, based on his observations during the years he was gone. 

Of beings who would do absolutely anything to survive. 

He had known Sherlock was going to kill Magnussen even though little brother had never put it into words. Even before the laced punch and the artifice of playing happy Christmas with the damned Watsons in their family home.  He had never seen his brother so furious after having deduced what had happened to Mycroft while they were talking about Lady Smallwood’s blackmailing problem. Sherlock had been perplexed about the reason why she had come to him instead of Mycroft for assistance.  Ms Morstan had only been a convenient excuse at that time for Sherlock’s perceived insanity. 

Like every other brilliant fool (Moriarty, Eurus), Magnussen hadn’t understood the depth of Sherlock’s love for him. The treasonous snake had probably died thinking that Sherlock had done it for Dr Watson. 

And isn’t that a shame? 

The Leave campaign hadn’t even unofficially started when Magnussen was dispatched, but Mycroft had felt a deep responsibility toward the final result. It was the wrong choice. A choice that would leave the next generation of Britons poorer, and the current generation of elites, richer. It weakened the Western block of power, and no doubt the other factions had been rejoicing when Brexit became a reality and when a certain president came into power across the pond – with help from the same social media misinformation machinery that Magnussen had helped develop with his expertise and money. 

It had created the perfect blend of nostalgia and false information, creating a yearning for a past that had never existed. For a Great Britain that had never been. It had preyed on the racist sentiment that still plagued the Western world and fear. This is the way the rich have decided to play in the Age of Information. By turning it into the Age of Misinformation in order to keep the lower classes occupied with themselves so that they couldn’t see that they were being fleeced. Ultimately working against Mycroft’s goal of maintaining a strong Britain.  The consequences of Brexit had consumed and distracted him as he tried to plot a whole new course for the country while Eurus had danced so freely behind his back. Scheming. Plotting. Trying to take her last revenge. 

It’s all over now. 

Sherlock hasn’t made a peep since he had climaxed. Mycroft turns his neck slightly and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s cheek. 

In his mind, he sees Sherlock kneeling on the patio near Magnussen’s corpse, his dear face anguished in a way that Mycroft had never seen it. His hands raised high up in the air in surrender. 

The perfect offering. 

Despite all the lives Sherlock had taken throughout the years, Sherlock had never enjoyed it. Killing. It was just something he had to do. Taking out the venomous weeds that had been choking them both for too long. To buy them both precious freedom and security. 

The truth was that Mycroft had never loved him more than at that moment.

And now Mycroft only wishes he knew how to bridge this chasm between them. It had been a necessity to not discuss things in the past. Things were too dangerous. For his career. For Sherlock’s. 

But now, none of that mattered anymore.

He wishes Sherlock would say something. 

Anything. 

Yell at him. Curse at him. Insult him. 

Something other than this horrible silence. 


	6. Chapter 6

> There was Mycroft leaning on his brolly, looking out of place in his fancy three-piece suit on the deck of a private beach house along the sands of Miami. There were the screeches and blood-curdling shouts of their snotty little cousins frolicking adjacent to the sea, no doubt offensive to Mycroft’s refined sensibilities. Within the house itself – Mummy and a few of their relatives n-times removed were in the kitchen with its large windows looking seaward. Gossiping. Preparing a hearty dinner of Cuban-inspired cuisine. 
> 
> Sherlock missed England. He had been stuck in Florida for what had seemed like forever. All he wanted was his usual cuppa and some good old tikka masala. Perhaps a stack of English newspapers, so he could reacquaint himself with the rhythms of London and foresee a crime. He missed a good old locked-door murder mystery. None of this bloody cartel business that he had just slammed the door shut on with its cruel military-like operations. 
> 
> Frank Hudson had been a highly unpleasant man and it had been a pleasure for Sherlock to find a berth for him in Death Row. 
> 
> “Fancy seeing you here.” Mycroft said with a casual air when Sherlock propped his elbows against the wooden railing adjacent to him. 
> 
> Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He fished out a fag from a box in his shirt pocket and lit it. He hadn’t known that Mummy would find a way to strongarm her eldest into coming here during his holidays. All the way across the pond. 
> 
> “Don’t let Mummy catch you.” Mycroft frowned in disapproval as Sherlock inhaled deeply.
> 
> “Oh do shut up, Mycroft.” Sherlock thrusted the carton toward him. “Life is too short for you to rain on my party.” 
> 
> Mycroft bummed a cig after hooking his brolly against one of the railings. Sherlock watched in amusement as he attempted to look for a light. He knew big brother. About how he never wanted to disappoint Mummy. That he hadn’t brought any fags or ignition sources with him to avoid temptation. 
> 
> Sherlock took pity on him. He exhaled casually, blowing a few rings. He gestured for Mycroft to come closer. His brother does. He remembered inhaling in the salted air, permeated with the scents of exotic spices, the smoke and Mycroft. He lit his brother’s fag in one easy motion while never taking his eyes off of his face. 
> 
> How dark his brother’s eyes were! How dilated. 
> 
> It felt surreal, straddling the in-between. They were somewhere far from London, yet still constrained by its limits. They held each other’s gaze while the sky went through its colourful transformation as the sun began its descent. The end of Mycroft’s fag was smouldering, although his brother hadn’t yet smoked it. Mycroft’s free hand came closer and closer, and he gently ran a finger down Sherlock’s cheek. 
> 
> Sherlock shuddered despite the heat. 
> 
> “It doesn’t count.” He turned away abruptly, breaking the tentative connection. 
> 
> “No…?” Mycroft let his hand trail over Sherlock’s back and he brazenly squeezed an arse cheek.
> 
> “What’s gotten into you? Don’t tell me you’ve already drank your way through Aunt Desiree’s infamous tequila collection?” 
> 
> Mycroft finally brought the fag to his lips. He inhaled.
> 
> Then exhaled slowly as he looked out toward the sea.
> 
> “Your hand is still on my arse.”
> 
> “I miss it.”
> 
> “That’s not the point.”
> 
> “We can’t do this here.” 
> 
> “I know.”
> 
> “Fuck it, My. We are two fucking grown adults in the outskirts of Miami, and we are still under the thumb of Mummy. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” 
> 
> Sherlock fiercely stubbed his cig on the rail, flung it into the sand and walked off, leaving Mycroft to vacillate between following or staying. And muttering darkly about how appallingly American Sherlock sounded these days. 
> 
> It was all the more reason for Sherlock to continue speaking like one.
> 
> ***
> 
> It was a night of possibilities. 
> 
> There was a decent Latin beat, colourful lights and the scent of the sea. 
> 
> There was the clinking of glasses. Laughter. The swirl of dresses that reminded him of exotic flowers. 
> 
> Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the atmosphere sink in – letting himself be transported into another world. His legs twitched. His feet moved of their own accord. One step. Two. It had been so long since he had last danced. 
> 
> His body felt light. 
> 
> He felt like he could fly. 
> 
> The hum of energy thrummed around him. 
> 
> A hand touched his side, sending a hot sizzle down his skin. 
> 
> “Unhand me, fiend.” Sherlock said dispassionately.
> 
> A dark hearty chuckle followed. “You silly, silly sod. When I am done with you, you will beg for my hand.”
> 
> Gods. That silk. That fucking voice. 
> 
> The confidence. 
> 
> How his body reacted! 
> 
> Mycroft’s hand finds his, and Sherlock felt himself being twirled about. His eyes were still closed, but he didn't need to see to follow. His body knew where Mycroft’s was. That peculiar magnetic property that linked them together was still there, as if they’ve never been apart. 
> 
> He didn’t want to see. 
> 
> He wanted to pretend. Pretend that this was the fabric of his everyday life. 
> 
> His brother was an excellent lead, just as he was excellent in everything else he turned his hand toward. He knew Mycroft’s intentions with the lightest of touch and even in the slightest changes to how he breathed. 
> 
> Everything was so fucking alive at this moment in time. 
> 
> His feet touched soft sand, and Sherlock saw the stars that shone over them. The skies were splashed with the vestiges of twilight. He finally saw Mycroft with his own eyes, who had somehow dug up a grotesque specimen of Hawaiian shirt that likely belonged to one of their uncles, a pair of old faded and ripped jeans and hair gel. Two glo-sticks were bent into circles and glowed lightly around his neck. How ordinary he looked, out of his godly vestments! He fitted in with the crowd, looking like a well-to-do accountant or something who had just gotten off work and was looking to play. And play hard. 
> 
> What a contrast from what Sherlock had seen out earlier on the deck. 
> 
> Sherlock laughed when Mycroft dipped him overzealously, almost falling in the process. And he caught his gaze, his two blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Joy. Affection in a way that Sherlock had never seen from him before. 
> 
> And they were kissing. In the starlight. Beneath the palm trees. In a public that neither of them would ever visit again. Just another couple at a LGBTQ+ friendly club, unable to keep it in their pants. Nothing new. Mycroft’s hands migrated downward, sliding sensually down Sherlock’s entire torso, until they were grabbing his buttocks. He gasped when his front collided with Mycroft’s in an unceremonious fashion, and soon they were grinding against each other to some slow love tune. Making out with all the finesse of teenagers out on a drunken fumble. Sherlock had known Mycroft would have followed him anywhere when he had left the deck, willing to risk Mummy’s great displeasure. 
> 
> It was that time of year. And God Mycroft may be, intrinsically he was still a man. A man with specific tastes that needed satisfying that only Sherlock could provide.
> 
> It was a night where they could be like everyone else.
> 
> ***
> 
> “God. I want you.” Mycroft whispered huskily in his ear, perfusing Sherlock with a sublime heat. “How I want you, darling. How I dream of having you.” 
> 
> “Mycroft…” Sherlock groaned in the dark corner of the dance floor, feeling his groin come into contact again with the now-familiar hardness of his brother. “My… croft…”
> 
> He gasped as his brother’s hand came in contact with his bare chest, just as his mouth met his in another sensual, but hungry kiss. He hadn’t even realized that Mycroft had stealthily tackled the buttons of his shirt as they had danced. 
> 
> From there it was all a jumble of memory. 
> 
> Heat. Want. Desire. Lust.
> 
> He remembered saying, “We can’t fuck here.” 
> 
> And then the next thing Sherlock knew was they were in the well-kept loo of the dance club. It was empty, and Mycroft had pushed him into one of those flimsy stalls in the far corner. Mycroft kissed him again, not even bothering to lock the door behind him as it closed with a clatter. 
> 
> He remembered his hips bucking against Mycroft’s. How desperation coloured everything with a frenetic energy that was threatening to boil over. It was ridiculous, seeing Mycroft sitting on the toilet with his trousers and pants pulled down to his ankles. Sherlock went down on him, swirling his tongue slowly around his brother’s reddening cock as he took him in. He was perfectly aware that he was a drooling mess, considering how sex of any sort is an annual affair for him, but Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind, only urging him onward with delicious tugs to his locks. Not soon enough, Sherlock was stumbling over his brother, high on need, and his brother’s arms were around him, supporting him, guiding him to where he wanted – or rather needed to be. 
> 
> Mycroft chuckled, letting his forehead brush against Sherlock’s. “Steady there, love. We have time.” 
> 
> “Mm… I like that.” Sherlock turned his head slightly to snog him, while one of Mycroft’s lube slicked fingers (he wasn’t sure when Mycroft had taken a packet out) toyed with the rim of his quivering hole. “God, My… please don’t tease.” He whimpered while Mycroft soothed him, letting his index finger ever so slowly sink into his anus. Preparing him for the next step of their dance.
> 
> It wasn’t long until Sherlock was grasping at the base of Mycroft’s cock, rubbing the leaking cockhead around his perineum and hole. He heard Mycroft moan at the contact, and with a steady push, he slid the hot, pulsing organ into him. Trying to keep his eyes open in the poorly lit space to catch the expression on Mycroft’s face at the moment of penetration. That rare precious moment where Mycroft lost all semblance of his godly self and tumbled down to Earth as a mortal creature with earthly needs. Seeing that torturous bliss mirrored on Mycroft’s face. 
> 
> God, that stretch got him every time they fuck. It burned, but oh, it felt so exquisitely good. Sherlock pushed more of the dick into him, hungry for more. Then Mycroft was pumping into him with firm thrusts while his hands cupped the curves of Sherlock’s arse for leverage. 
> 
> _God, more, more!_ He mouthed, spurring his brother onward. 
> 
> And then they both heard the sound of footsteps enter and head toward the urinals. 
> 
> Neither of them bother to freeze, too far lost in their fog of need. The idea of stopping never occurred to either of them. It simply wasn’t an option. 
> 
> Somehow, the illicitness heightened Sherlock’s pleasure, knowing that it was the British Government that was fucking him, his little brother, in this godforsaken ordinary American restroom. Knowing the implications that could befall them if they ever got caught (and how little they had both bloody cared at that moment). Knowing that for once, there was someone listening to their sexual congress with one thin wall separating them. Witnessing the heavy breathing. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh. The little sounds that slip away from the both of them; the noises that communicated to the other what they wanted; what they needed from each other. It made things feel _real_ in a way that Sherlock had never experienced before.
> 
> His brother’s hands explored his hairless chest, and Sherlock whined when inquisitive fingers brushed against his nipples, gently rolling them and even pinching them in time with the noises that their interloper made as he went through the steps of taking an ordinary piss. Each noise seemed to increase Sherlock’s perceived risk of getting found out, and that only brought him closer and closer to climax. _God, Mycroft… give it to me… give it to me!_
> 
> Mycroft came first, and that feeling of his hot cum hitting the walls of his canal was enough. Sherlock could feel himself spasming around the softening cock as it surrendered all its seed. And soon they were both laughing with relief and exhilaration in the tiny space when the middle-aged guest had finally walked out without washing his hands, muttering something grumpily along the lines of horny degnerate youth that couldn’t keep it in their fucking pants. 
> 
> ***
> 
> “You look better.”
> 
> “Oh?” Sherlock remembered looking up at his brother in his small hut in Zambia years later. “My head no longer hurts. Fever is broken. Finally. I think. Medication likely worked. I would have lived regardless had you not shown up. Sorry that your excursion down here lacked the fun that you expected.”
> 
> Fingers tenderly combed through his sweat-dried hair. “Never mind that. Whatever you need, brother – I provide. I promised you. And I still have a few days left. We can make the most of them still. I think a ramble out in the fresh air would do you some good to-day.”
> 
> “Did you hear the lion last night?” Sherlock settled his head against Mycroft’s naked and furry chest when he laid down beside him. “That deep throaty vibrato?”
> 
> “Yes. I saw him trod across from the window to the river’s edge. Camouflaged with the shadows. Sent a shiver up my spine when I first caught a glimpse of him despite the four solid wooden walls that separate us. Brutus, you said his name was?” 
> 
> “The former top dog. Or rather, cat.” Sherlock mused. “He was usurped weeks ago by a gang of rival male lions and disappeared. Lost his fellow male partner, Cassidy. He started popping up again just before I fell ill. He’s lucky to be alive, judging by the injuries. He keeps out of the way these days, staying in the fringes of pride territory. Scavenging like a hyena. I feel like him. Weak still. I won’t be able to satiate your appetites, Mycroft – within the next few days.”
> 
> “If you think I keep you around only for sex, you are sorely mistaken.” 
> 
> “You like my bum.”
> 
> “It’s a very nice bum, Lock.”

Sherlock loved those days out in Zambia. Malarial illness aside. His memories come to him in snatches, whenever the cyclical fever had broken enough for him to be anchored into reality. Watching Mycroft tend to him in the middle of nowhere. Worrying about him whenever he went out to fetch water and supplies from strategically located outposts outlined on crude hand-drawn maps in the old beat-up Land Rover. Fortunately his humble abode had an electric generator and was wired for comfort. Leopards, crocodiles, lions, hippos and all sorts of other dangerous flora and fauna abounded outside. There were well over a million ways someone inexperienced could perish out here in the bush. Sherlock was an expert now at living in the wild but Mycroft had refused to let Sherlock do a single chore during his period of convalescence.

Alas. It had been a beautiful place. An unspoiled location. A cruel place where the drama of life played out, and there were winners and losers aplenty. He recalled when he first saw a herd of impala. He had made a deduction that some of them would not live to see the next sunrise. And he had been right the next moment, as a crocodile had snapped one up as soon as they had attempted to cross the river. Its life vanishing in a blink of an eye.

Living in the bush has been therapeutic in many ways. Allowing him to draw parallels to his life as an undercover agent, working to dismantle Moriarty’s web. He had done things that went against his moral code. Seen comrades die. Witnessed acts of senseless cruelty that sometimes still kept him up at night and even haunted him throughout his days on occasion. His days in the savannah had shown him that life was resilient, and would do anything to survive. 

That loss is an important part of life, just as pain. 

And that he could only really take things… as they come.

He had even loved his undercover job. Observing the wildlife. Drawing. Sketching. Writing. Snapping photographs. Doing a spot of research. Keeping an eye out for poachers. It wasn’t his job to engage them, but it was his to watch and report. Fostering baby animals (an elephant, a monkey) whose parents were lost to the natural processes of nature or in the case of the former, a poacher until they could be placed at appropriate sanctuaries. He had even published papers and magazine articles under a pseudonym.

Sometimes he was asked to serve as a guide for a few easygoing VIPs by his employers, and Sherlock found it not to be the tedious task he had envisioned. He actually missed people. It was good preparation for the few healthy days he could share with Mycroft. He enjoyed showing Mycroft what he had learned. How to track the animals and even the bees that had crossed his territory. Weaving his observations over time into coherent stories. Deducing from nature. Taking him to some of the bush camps set out for tourists willing to pay a hefty premium. His brother found everything Sherlock did exceedingly interesting. He asked clever questions and provoked thoughtful debate. Sitting with him in the grasses, surrounded by flowers of such sheer beauty. Watching life go by. Mycroft had collected some of the vibrant flora, and had spent his time weaving them into a crown while Sherlock had been busy sketching. How Sherlock’s face had burned when Mycroft had crowned him! 

It was the perfect break from dismantling Moriarty’s network, and Sherlock knew on the second-last day he had with Mycroft that he could not possibly love him more.

> "I wish you didn’t have to go.” He said reluctantly.
> 
> “I do too, Lock. You are happy, and I seldom get to see that.” 
> 
> Sherlock had buried his face against his brother’s shoulder at that moment. Mycroft’s arms were strong and held him protectively. 
> 
> “I wish things were different.”
> 
> “As do I, love. As do I.” Mycroft’s voice then pitched lower. “I wish I could be the one to promise you the world. To make you happy. I really, really do. But I won’t make you promises that I cannot keep. We can only live one day at a time.” 
> 
> His brother was thinking of the leopard that they had seen just before they had walked back home under the orangey-red embers of the dying sun. High up in the tree, chomping on a baboon so nonchalantly. Just doing leopard things.
> 
> “One year at a time.”
> 
> “Yes.” Mycroft kissed him then under a different set of stars. Tenderly. “I love you, Sherlock.” 
> 
> “I love you too.” 
> 
> Mycroft only held him tighter. 
> 
> Sherlock isn’t sure to this day, but he could have sworn that he had felt hot tears touch his forehead, but he wasn’t brave enough to look at his brother’s expression. 
> 
> They lingered outside for a long time, for it was an exceptionally nice day to listen to the song of the wild. 
> 
> “Would you…” Sherlock felt shy. They hadn’t had sex at all during the entire two weeks Mycroft had been here. He hadn’t felt up to it, and what outdoor activity they did after his illness took the rest of his energy. But tonight, he knew he needed it. Wanted it. Craved it. “Would you make love to me?”
> 
> Another kiss, before Mycroft picked him up with a grunt. 
> 
> “I thought you would never ask.”

And now… he is lying in Mycroft’s own bed. 

A bed that he had always wished that Mycroft would take him to. His brother’s arm is still possessively draped around him. There’s a pained look on his face that Sherlock could not quite decipher. A sad one. Resignation. And then Sherlock realizes that Mycroft had sussed out what he had planned to do. 

Things shouldn’t end this way. In pained silence. But Sherlock isn’t sure what to say. He means something to his brother. Mycroft tells him that he ‘loves him’ during these ‘Arrangements’ ever since he had left to dismantle Moriarty’s web. Then there is the way they treat each other as lovers, and sometimes even as something more. Like they had done during those weeks in the middle of the African wilderness. 

Sherlock allows these fantasies to bloom whenever they are together and fall apart when they aren’t. 

For how else is he supposed to function? 

But perhaps that had always been the cowardly way to go about it. Mycroft had asked him more frequently over the years to think rationally about that bloody Lord after Magnussen’s demise. Mycroft who had told him that he wasn’t playing games with him. Mycroft who had said that he wouldn’t make promises that he couldn’t keep. Sherlock had never wanted to delve too deep into what Mycroft really felt, because at least he could live in a world of might-have-beens rather than run the risk of having his tender fantasies ripped to shreds. And Mycroft had for the most part had been content for Sherlock to live like that. Where his pain, petty behaviour and resentment served as… a cover? It had fooled everyone. 

Even… himself. 

Mycroft is his archenemy because he stands in the way of what Sherlock had wanted. Which is Mycroft. And doesn’t that sound stupid in his head or what? He couldn’t ask Mycroft to give up his career. Not when he had made so many sacrifices to reach the lofty heights of Mount Olympus. Sherlock had been cynically skeptical of the ‘Arrangement’ at the beginning, thinking that it was a way for Mycroft to control him. To entice him to behave. And maybe… in the beginning it had. So that he would appear on the straight and narrow during the Christmas-time. Make Mummy happy. 

But that sounds absurd too. 

Why would Mycroft make such enormous sacrifices to attend to him once a year for that? Especially during the years where Sherlock was officially dead? His brother isn’t stupid. Far from it. So then, when the impossible is eliminated, what must be left – however improbable – must be true. 

That Mycroft did love him the way Sherlock did. 

That somewhere, somehow and some time over the last two decades, he had fallen. A deity who had fallen in love with a mortal man. 

His brother smiles sadly at him. 

It appears that his final deduction is true.

“You aren’t going to beg for me to stay?” Sherlock makes another.

“It seems that you’ve already made up your mind, brother. It’s your choice. But I will beg for you to stay if you want me to.”

Sherlock does not ask him to beg. Instead, he breathes life into one of his most precious deductions. “You love me.”

“I never said I didn’t.” Mycroft turns to look at him, needing him to see his sincerity. “Of course, I love you. I adore you, dearly. Beyond measure.”

“You said that caring wasn’t an advantage. It was one of your favourite axioms that you so enjoyed rubbing my face into over the years.”

“I never said I didn’t care, Sherlock. Only that it had painful disadvantages that you are all too aware of.” Mycroft replies somewhat stiffly. His words then grow more tentative with every syllable. “Perhaps… I should have been more tactful with you. For one does not choose who they fall in love with. And how hard…”

“I leave tomorrow.” Sherlock cuts short the contemplation.

Mycroft’s words are both pained and reluctant. “I know. As your brother, I suggest that you do. It would offer you a fresh perspective on things. Too much history here, cluttering about. Pain.”

“As my lover?”

“I will exercise my right to remain quiet on the matter. I am still trying to figure it out too, Sherlock. I don’t know what my next step will be. Anthea has taken my place, and I don’t think she plans to relinquish her role any time soon. From what I can see, she’s doing an adequate job.”

“But she will defer to you if you choose to return.”

Mycroft changes the topic after a moment’s contemplation. 

“It’s alright, Sherlock. Maybe it is time to move on. Stretch your wings without me weighing you down. See the world. I know you don’t need my permission, but I give it to you regardless. I hurt you, little brother. In ways that you cannot completely see. But I do. I regret it. I regret it deeply. You deserve better as I’ve always said. Just will you… please stay the night?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Don't kill me :P


	7. Chapter 7

“He would have a laugh, wouldn’t he?”

“Maw!” The little ball-of-fur looked up at him from his coat-pocket with his inquisitive chocolate-y eyes.

It’s a warm day. A clear one. The salty breezes blow over Sherlock like caresses. Instilling a familiar sense of peace within him. He is surrounded by a surreal landscape of mushroom-like rock formations jutting from the sand. Just a little further, the vivid blues of the sea could be seen. 

He sits on a rock, pondering. 

Idly twirling a pencil between his fingers.

It’s funny how things hardly ever go as expected. 

He had wanted a dog, but ended up with a teacup-sized kitten with dark stripes that his landlady liked to call ‘Pockets’ considering his predilection for traveling and hiding in them. On one dreary day Sherlock had walked by a box and a child desperately trying to find homes for kittens that she could not keep before her mother would forcefully take them to the local shelter. Pockets had been the last (and the runt of the litter), and Sherlock found himself sympathizing with both of them, so he had sighed and taken the kitty-cat to put them both out of their misery. He had thought cats were too aloof like a certain somebody else he knew, but Pockets had been anything but. Social, adorable and ever so bloody curious! 

He lives in a modest but comfortable flat in the middle of Taipei, Taiwan, and these days he spends his days wandering about. Thinking. Drawing. Writing. Taking photographs. Soaking in hot springs to loosen up his aching body and joints. He is barely forty, but yet – he feels like a man old before his time. It was nice to leave the past behind. 

Well, physically that is. There was still the guilt. Irreparable friendships. Unspeakable traumas. It was the sort of peaceful life that his younger self would have absolutely abhorred, but now… it is what Sherlock had needed. 

He still dreams. 

Feeling the coolness of a gun in his hands. 

Sometimes he would be standing in front of Magnussen, filled with a cold, cold wrath that hadn’t felt since. The media mogul would be flicking away at John’s brow. The arrogant _thunk, thunk, thunk_ marking the painful (and dilated) passage of time. All Sherlock had felt during that period was cool detachment. He had been waiting. Waiting for the right moment to pounce. It had been only too convenient that Magnussen had been too absorbed in his own games of power and cruelty for him to see Sherlock’s next move. Thinking that he had already won. 

Or it would be Sherrinford. Of him turning the gun slowly toward himself. And then, he would be confronted with Mycroft’s eyes. So blue. So vulnerable at that moment. That brief flash of pain that had crossed them. Now that he has the full context, Sherlock had a better handle on what his brother had felt during that horrid final problem. 

Yet, he wouldn’t have done things any differently. 

For Mycroft, he would kill. And kill again if it ever is necessary. 

When he had initially arrived in Taipei, he had taken a job as a bartender, but he had quickly given that up. Goldfish were goldfish even halfway around the world. He had worked as one frequently during the years he had been away. It had been the perfect role to get unsuspecting marks to spill after a drink or two. Or to gather information about the place that Sherlock had found himself in. Quitting had been okay, he had saved up enough money over the past few years to last a little while in relative comfort. 

And then just last month, he had found a mysterious deposit of cash in his bank account from an untraceable source. He had sighed and almost called Mycroft to yell at him. Which might have been his brother’s ulterior motive. 

Bloody, meddling sod. 

He continues to put down graphite on his sketchbook, drawing the famous rock formation known as ‘The Queen’ for its resemblance to Queen Elizabeth I. There aren’t too many tourists around today, and the longer he stays here, the more phallic the rocks appear to him. 

He could imagine Mycroft standing next to him now, chuckling.

_“You miss me.”_

“Piss off.” He mutters to his imaginary Mycroft. 

_“Or more specifically, you miss my cock.”_

“Joy. How egotistical can you get?” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. 

_“Pot. Kettle. Black. Just admit it, won’t you?”_

“Hell no.” 

These conversations to imaginary versions of his brother happen way too often these days. He must be walking the fine line between sanity and insanity. Sherlock had tried some local dating applications and found himself comparing every single man he saw to Mycroft. It had been so bloody infuriating. He couldn’t even go through with ‘no-strings-attached’ sex. He also kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Expecting Mycroft to meddle with his encounters with other men. Hack into his accounts. Or worse, be catfished by him. 

Yet, he had seen no signs of sabotage. Perhaps, this is Mycroft showing him that he is capable of change. That he would (for once) respect Sherlock’s boundaries.

So for now, he had given it up and resigned himself to being alone. 

Which really isn’t too bad. 

He had Pockets. 

“I do miss him. The bloody bastard.” Sherlock put away his sketchbook and stood up, feeling a need to stretch his legs. He says firmly while looking down at his kitty. “I wish I didn’t, but I do. Do you want to head back?” 

“Mrow!” 

Pockets is an easy-going cat, filled with a surprising amount of affection. If he didn’t ride in Sherlock’s pockets, he liked to curl up into Sherlock’s shirt. Or fall asleep around Sherlock’s neck. He made things easier when days were hard. And grey. 

***

Sherlock senses it before he puts the key into the hole. 

That there is someone in his flat. 

He’s not ready for this. 

Whatever ‘this’ is. 

It had been well over half a year since he had left London behind. Over half a year since he had left a slumbering Mycroft in his bed with a heavy heart. 

Walking away from all that he had once wanted so badly. 

His brother had been right. Sherlock had needed to get away from England. His life there had been slowly suffocating him. Sherrinford had only been the final straw. Even if Mycroft had promised him the world, the rest of his life would have still been in shambles. He had slipped out in the middle of the night, destroyed all the evidence of their relationship together at Baker Street and jumped onto a plane to Singapore with a new set of false papers. 

“Me-meow?” Pockets picks up on Sherlock’s distress. 

He kneads Sherlock’s shoulder and lightly headbutts his cheek. 

“Just an old acquaintance.” He says quietly. As neutral as he possibly could. “I am surprised he didn’t show up sooner, really. He could never let me be.”

“Mew!” 

“And I can never let him alone either. It goes both ways. Too much history. I wonder what is his reason for coming here though.”

“Mro-ow.”

“You are right. I won’t know until I talk to him.”

Sherlock turns the key and summons the courage to push his way in. 

He places his bag of food from the night-market downstairs on the kitchen island, drops his knapsack on the floor and toes off his runners. He hangs his light jacket in the closet.

Pockets leaps off his shoulder and onto the ground at some point, scampering into the living room. Leaving Sherlock feeling a little abandoned. But then again this is his own battle that he must undergo. His heart beats quicker when he finally catches a glimpse of Mycroft. Big brother is casually sitting at the glass table next to the large bay windows overlooking the city proper. He’s not in one of his customary suits, but is dressed rather casually. 

Undone collar. Jeans. No socks. 

Somehow, Sherlock finds this far more intimidating. 

Taking a breath, he goes to meet him. 

*** 

_What’s taking little brother so long…_

Mycroft sighs, trying to keep his fidgeting to a minimum. Maybe he should have taken the shower that he had wanted to take to wash the grime off. Sherlock wouldn’t have minded. But strangely enough, he hadn’t wanted to go into Sherlock’s private spaces until little brother had actually invited him in. 

It has been a trying couple of months. Where Mycroft had fought every instinct screaming for him to go buy the next ticket to Taipei. Stared jealously at Sherlock’s profile on various dating sites from halfway across the world. Had tried so hard to temper the old urge to meddle with his brother’s life. He had toyed with the idea of hacking into his brother’s dating accounts, and instead tortured himself with the idea of other men being with Lock. 

One glance at Sherlock’s flat had told him instantly that his brother didn’t have a significant other – but rather a significant cat. Then his brain reminded him that there were such things such as one-night-stands and everything else awful along those lines. 

But really, he had no right to complain. Considering the list of things he had put Sherlock through over the years. Yes, he had told Sherlock (rather cruelly) when they had been younger to go see other people, with the hopes that Sherlock could move on from his silly crush that threatened the trajectory of Mycroft’s promising career. Yes, he had let Sherlock believe that he didn’t love him, when he had fallen for him. 

He had always felt that things were safer (and easier) when Sherlock didn’t know the truth.

But now it was different. 

Is different. 

He still dreams of those days in Zambia. Where he had never seen Sherlock so deathly ill. It’s funny though that his brain picks this moment out of all moments where his brother’s mortality had been in question. Out of all the overdoses, the dangerous capers and his moments of grandiose self-sacrifice! But perhaps it was then – out in the wilds, out of England – where Mycroft had been free to be himself. Free to confront his inner fears. His buried desires. Pay the price for his life’s choices. His hand still remembered how feverish Sherlock had been. All the sweat! And how delirious Sherlock was. Through his brother’s mumblings and behaviours, he had caught glimpses of terrible things that Sherlock had seen and done during his time away. How he had longed to be able to take away his brother’s burdens?! His pain! And when his brother had been hallucinating him. God. It had killed him, seeing Sherlock calling out for him while he was right there in front of him. Oblivious to any sort of soothing that Mycroft had attempted. There were times where Mycroft had almost requested an evacuation, figuring that Sherlock’s condition was beyond what he could manage. 

And it was during those days where Mycroft found himself hoping (practically praying) to anyone that would listen for Sherlock to come out of this unscathed. Bargaining even. And then, the days after when Sherlock was recovering! It was as if Mycroft had been thrown out of Hell and into Heaven. It was a revelation. That his brother was the singular most important person in his life. And towards the end, he had felt like one of those protagonists that the goldfish had so enjoyed watching on screen, wanting to promise his love everything that he had ever wanted, even though it wasn’t possible. He had held his tongue. 

There is the sound of the key at the door. Mycroft quickly rearranges himself, wanting to appear nonchalant. He doesn’t look, listening to the sounds of baby brother drop his things and remove his clothes. There is the ‘miaow’ of a cat and the scamper of paws. His heart quickens, hearing Sherlock’s footsteps grow louder. 

And then, finally – finally Sherlock drops into view. Clad in a loose shirt and old faded jeans. His curls worn shorter than they had been back in England. He’s gained weight. There is a tranquility to him that hadn’t been there since Mycroft had last seen him. 

“Hello, brother.” Sherlock says calmly. In a fashion that Mycroft is unsure whether his presence is welcome. “What brings you here to this part of the world?”

Mycroft leans forward a little, finding small comfort that Sherlock still wore the same cologne as he did back in England. His brother mirrors his movement. “If I may be frank, Lock – I came here to see you. I…” He finds himself swallowing; the feelings he had been contemplating before Lock’s arrival had reemerged. “I missed you. I wanted to see… how you were. With my own two eyes. You look good. Being away suits you.” 

“Thank you.” Sherlock says curtly. 

The tables have really turned. How unemotional his brother seems! For too long it had always been the other way around. A coldness settles in Mycroft’s chest. If little brother had moved on… what is he to do with himself? He had contemplated this before, but being faced with the possibility in reality is quite different from theoretical musings. 

“I am okay, as you can see.” Sherlock permits a small smile that Mycroft had been longing to kiss. “But… I don’t think you are being completely transparent, Mycroft.” 

“Sherlock…” It comes out more like a wistful sigh than anything else. That silly little tale that Mycroft told Sherlock all those years ago about the Matterhorn comes to mind. A Sherlock wrapped in a bed sheet dances teasingly across his mindscape. He must mount. Now is not the time to get distracted. “This… this isn’t any easier for me than it is for you. I… I wanted to ask you if I…” 

This isn’t going like how Mycroft had envisioned it would have gone. He hadn’t expected to feel so vulnerable. To sound so pathetic in front of the man he loved. But this is what it is, isn’t it? Him chasing his brother all the way across the world to bear his heart? His soul? Or perhaps using the old analogy of a deity who had shed his immortality to come to his lover as a mortal man – stripped off all of his powers. 

“If I still had a chance.” 

“What are you saying?” Sherlock blinks, abruptly looking pained. “That you are finally –”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft says firmly. He reaches for one of his brother’s hands. Perhaps it is a good sign that Sherlock lets him take it. “I am saying that I come to you, not as a God – not as the British Government –”

Sherlock snorts at that, but Mycroft could catch the slight softening of his blue-green-grey eyes. He doesn’t interrupt, letting Mycroft attempt to get to the end.

“Perhaps not as your brother either. But…” 

Mycroft stands up, grabbing something from the nook next to him. 

Sherlock stares and stares at him, frozen as he crosses the few steps to be next to him. 

It’s not the time for subtle gestures and words with hidden meanings. This is something that he cannot fuck up. 

Slowly he sinks down onto his knees.

“But as a man. The man who…”

Mycroft’s vision is getting suspiciously blurry. Then he feels hands touch his face, gently wiping something away. 

“Who…” 

“Loves you.” Sherlock finishes for him just as Mycroft lifts up his offering. “Mycroft…”

Mycroft could feel his heart pound in his chest. 

Hope rises within him, although he tries to shove it down a little. 

***

“Mycroft…” Sherlock is looking at his brother in abject disbelief.

He is certain that his brother had never knelt in front of anyone. At least, he couldn’t imagine it. He had expected Mycroft to pop back into his life at some point, but not like this. In this messy sentimental fashion. Mycroft is looking hopefully up at him – his eyes wet. Sherlock reflexively moves his hands to wipe the dampness away. All those icy and mighty shields from years past are gone. 

From somewhere, Mycroft conjures a flower. 

A single flame lily in all its glory. It takes Sherlock back instantly to those days out in the savannah. He could almost smell the fresh air. The call of the wild. See how gorgeous Mycroft had looked that day when his bloody fever had finally broken for good. His face lined by worry, care… and now he knew… love. Sherlock stares at the vibrant but poisonous flower dumbly, before his nerveless fingers attempt to wrap themselves around the transparent plastic covering the stem. His vision seems to blur, turning the flower literally into a ball-of-fire. 

Mycroft’s hand is still ensnared in his fingers and Sherlock holds onto them tightly. 

“Are you… are you asking me to come back with you?” Sherlock asks tentatively. 

He isn’t ready to go back. Not by a long shot. 

“No. I came… to be with you. If you will have me. I had to sort out my affairs back in London, you see. That’s why… it took so long for me to come here, Lock. I wanted to be sure that I could provide for you…”

“My…” Sherlock doesn’t know what to say.

“Mrow?” 

Their little bubble of sentiment pops when Pockets paws at Sherlock’s legs. 

“Hullo, hullo – what is this?”

“Pockets.” Sherlock offers a weak smile, still dazed by everything that had just happened. 

“You… you got a cat…” His brother reaches over for Pockets and the kitten jumps into his large palm. 

“Stating the obvious doesn’t suit you.” 

“Oh hush, Lock. You said you were never ever going to get a kitten. And here we are.” 

“Maybe… I missed you. A little.”

“Pockets, eh?”

“My landlady named him. He likes to travel around in my pockets. It’s better than Teacup, which my landlady’s son tried to foist on him.”

“Meow.” 

“I think Pockets is hungry.”

“Me-ow!” 

“Yes, yes – I will have your food out in just a moment.”

“Mrow!”

***

***

> I wanted to tell you something.” Mycroft said to Evander on what they both knew was his deathbed.
> 
> “You’ve come… to confess.” Evander looked up weakly at him. 
> 
> “I have, yes. I think you are the only person I can tell.”
> 
> “Then…” Evander took a laboured breath. There was fluid accumulating in his pleura as his cancer had ravaged throughout his body. “I would be honoured to listen to what you have to say.”
> 
> Mycroft looked around the room for a bit. Checking the windows. The doors. The walls. 
> 
> Evander chuckled. “We are safe here. I never do leave here, after all. But now… I am intrigued.” 
> 
> “It’s… about my brother. Sherlock. He’s… my vice, Ev.”
> 
> “Ah.” Evander’s eyes seemed to clear at that instant. “There was something there. Then… Mycroft – tell me… why are you here with me rather than with him?”
> 
> “Our relationship… it’s complicated. It started so long ago –” Mycroft started to go on and on, but then Evander held his hand to stop him.
> 
> He then asked gravely. “Do you love him?”
> 
> “Yes. Beyond all reason!” 
> 
> “The way is clear then. I think. You’ve done your duties to Queen and Country. You have found a successor. You have a lover that clearly has sacrificed much for you. As you have… for him…”
> 
> “It’s… that simple? What about –” 
> 
> “Oh Mycroft. I am not long for this world. The grass is always greener on the other side, but I do know that mutual love is a rare and most precious thing. And you know better than anyone that laws and morals are man made concepts meant to keep the common folk in line. To keep the peace, if you will. Archaic things at times. You can’t let them bring you down. Your Sherlock… he’s waited so long. He won’t wait forever…” 
> 
> Funny. How that seemed to visit him time and time again. How many times had he almost lost his Sherlock? Too many. Life is short. Has no guarantees. Evander is only in his sixties, yet they both know that this night will probably be his last. 
> 
> He had never promised Sherlock anything aside from the ‘Arrangement’, but he had a feeling that it was time to do something about it. And if there’s anything Mycroft is certain of, it is that life is not worth living without his other half. 
> 
> Sherrinford had reminded him of that. 
> 
> The pain would be unfathomable. 
> 
> Evander coughed harshly, and Mycroft held his hand, wondering how Sherlock was carrying on.

“I miss your curls.” Mycroft turns to brush his lips against the side of Sherlock’s head.

“They will grow back. I figured I might as well lie low, even though I didn’t exactly fake my death this time.” Sherlock bends down to place the salmon-based cat food on the tiled kitchen floor for Pockets, who nuzzles his ankles affectionately before tackling the ‘Pockets’-sized bowl. “How did you know where to find me?” 

“Of course I know where you were.” Mycroft smiles, refraining from reaching out for Sherlock’s bottom. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. I even saw… your dating profiles.” 

“Oh dear god. Really?” Sherlock starts to laugh. What a joyous sight! “I am surprised you even allowed me to date –”

“I was surprised how generous I could be.” Mycroft slings his arm around Sherlock’s waist. “I did think about it. Hacking into your account, seeing what fools would have the nerve to message you –” _Thinking of ways to destroy them all..._

“I had to be suspicious of everyone who was interested. Just in case it was you in sheep’s clothing.” Sherlock admits.

“Did you ever wish… that it was?” 

Mycroft wraps his other arm around his brother, bringing him closer. Sherlock goes willingly despite all the appalling smells Mycroft had picked along the way from Heathrow. 

“Sometimes. I tried. You know. Tried to move on.” 

“Sh… Sherlock. It’s okay.” Mycroft holds him gently. Preciously. “I understand. I don’t hold it against you. I would never.” 

Another kiss. 

“I wanted to call you and yell abuse at you when you dumped a hundred-grand into my humble bank account.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Lock.” Mycroft says suavely. “And that’s not the normal response to being gifted a little money –”

“A little!”

“It’s all relative, Sherlock. Besides, you will have to get used to it. It’s _your_ fault that you chose to be with someone who has some means.”

“My fault! Mycroft, you know I never really cared for money –”

“Your clothes say otherwise.”

“Even if I have to wear rags, I would still want you. But then again, I am not exactly some helpless damsel…” 

Mycroft thinks about that day where Sherlock killed a certain stain that humanity had to offer. Sherlock had always been a man of resolute action. “Far from it. You can be a very scary man, lover mine.” 

He reaches over for the bag of food that Sherlock had brought back, and opens it deftly with one hand, while keeping the other one around his brother. As stupid as it is, Mycroft doesn’t want to relinquish his brother physically. Even though he could do this whenever he wants to now… 

“Lover mine. I like that.” Sherlock grins at him. 

“I do too, darling.” Mycroft finds himself wanting to test out all these silly terms of endearment. A whole new world of possibilities is open to him now, and he doesn’t want to squander them. “You bought a lot of food.”

“I was intending to have a lazy day tomorrow, Mycie.”

Mycroft shivers a little at that nickname. It had been so long since he had been called that by anyone. Remembering how Magnussen had wielded it. _The hateful bastard is gone though. He won’t let him win._

“Have a lie in. Play with Pockets. My landlady’s son likes to come by and play board and video games. Finish some of my art. Mycroft –?” 

“Oh, uh. It’s nothing.” Mycroft opens one of the takeaway boxes, revealing enticing baos in the style of tacos containing both pork belly and fried chicken. 

“Mycroft… it’s something.” Sherlock looks concerned at him. “It’s your nickname? If you don’t like it, I don’t have to use it –”

“Lock… it’s not that. Well, it kind of is. The last time I heard it used…”

“The bastard!” 

Sherlock practically growls, reaching over to grab a pork belly bao. He bites into it, no doubt stemming the tirade of insults. Sauce drips from his lips, so Mycroft performs his first act of being the dutiful boyfriend(?) and wipes it off his chin. He would have to revisit this term of what they are to each other. 

“Sh.. Lockie, he’s dead.”

“Death was too good for him.” Sherlock says quietly, looking down at the flooring.

“It was. But it was the only solution as you said.” Mycroft picks up a bao himself and bites into it. The fried chicken is delightfully crunchy. Yet juicy. “It’s over now.” He looks up, seeing the flame lily in the water glass that Sherlock had placed it in on the counter. His brother did not possess any vases. Mycroft would have to remedy that the next time he went out. Not wanting to sully their dinner further with such an unworthy topic, he revisits a previous topic. “But your itinerary for tomorrow…”

“Too dull?” Sherlock opens another box, revealing a box of the longest chips Mycroft had ever seen. 

Mycroft grins like a fool when Sherlock holds the chip like a fag and puts it in his mouth. He gives it a wiggle. Somehow, his Sherlock-crazed brain thinks that it is a rather attractive look. 

“You silly, silly boy. Of course not.” Mycroft pulls him closer with his free arm and bites off half of the crispy treat. He takes another bite, and he sighs when their lips inadvertently brush against each other for the first time in months. 

“I was eating that.” Sherlock mumbles with half-hearted petulance against him. “I am afraid that my life is terribly boring these days. Especially for a man like you.”

There’s a look in little brother’s eyes. The one that indicates that a kiss would very much be welcome. 

“Oh?” Mycroft proceeds to snog him, pushing him against the fridge, relearning the shape and the contours of those lips he had spent months dreaming of. He starts slow, letting their noses nuzzle against each other before focusing on his lips. The kiss is sweet in a way that Mycroft had never experienced. Slow and unhurried. It fills him with a warmth that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He can’t imagine how life could be boring with Lock in it. “I like the sound of that. Nice lazy days to spend with you, dearest mine. Preferably in bed. Mm…” 

His brother brings up the last bite of the pork belly bao and Mycroft finishes it, enjoying the juiciness of the meat and the spices. And how his lips tingle with the ghost of their last kiss! 

“Men! Always thinking with their cocks.” 

Sherlock smirks with mock-disgust just as Mycroft reaches down to give his arse an ‘I-missed-you’ squeeze while shoving the rest of his bao into Sherlock’s mouth to shut him up. His brother’s words become utterly unintelligible afterwards.

“What was that, Lock?”

“I said.” Sherlock articulates clearly. “I understand the state of affairs in England so much better now.”

Mycroft lets the insult bounce off him and proceeds to dig himself a bigger hole. “But, Lock… I am not that… being anymore. I think for too long I’ve let my brain rule the roost, now it’s time for –”

“To be my big bad sexy caveman? Wonderful.” Sherlock’s eyes twinkle teasingly at him. “I would be only too happy to do the thinking for the both of us.”

“That’s not quite what I –” Mycroft is cut off by another kiss.

“You want more food?” Sherlock inquires.

“Better save it for tomorrow.” 

Mycroft turns slightly to close the bao box and the chips. He sees that there is also a hearty bowl of beef noodle soup, a packet of scallion pancakes and a box of soy milk that would do nicely for brunch tomorrow. He puts everything back in the bag and hands it over to Sherlock who puts it all away in the fridge. 

It’s lovely being all domestic with Lock. He could do this all his life. They would have to go out tomorrow. Either to Taipei’s famous night markets or the grocery. Like Sherlock’s Baker Street fridge, there is hardly anything edible in it. 

It would be a date. Their first one. A new sort of an adventure.

Sherlock presses his hand against Mycroft’s chest, letting it run down his belly. He looks up at Mycroft ever so fondly, and he asks with an exaggerated wink. “May I show you the bedroom, Mycroft – my love?”

Mycroft chuckles before quickly reaching downward and picking up his much heavier brother who gives an indignant yelp (squeak?) of surprise. 

“Put me down!”

“Just performing my first duty as your sexy caveman, dear. Now, the bedroom, you said?”

***

_No. He couldn’t do this with anyone else._

Sherlock thinks to himself when Mycroft gently lays him on his comfortable double-size bed. There’s something in the way Mycroft looks at him. That tenderness. That affection. The absolute unguarded nature of feelings that he had never been permitted to see before. Well, except maybe… a few times. Sherrinford. Zambia. The last night they had been together before Sherlock had left. 

A hand caresses his face, before lips press delicate kisses against his cheek. Mycroft leans further inward, brushing his forehead against his. There is a bit of stubble, but Sherlock finds it delightful when Mycroft’s cheek touches his. His own (somewhat shaky) hands are undoing buttons, wanting to feel his brother’s skin against his. Even though he had only gone months without Mycroft’s touch, Sherlock realizes how exactly starved he is of it. 

“I missed you.” He says, breathily.

“I know.” Mycroft replies with quiet gravity, losing the old undercurrent of cockiness he would have said it with in the past. 

There is so much that Sherlock could see that remains unsaid. His brother is simply gazing upon him, memorizing the moment. 

“I never thought… that we would get here.” 

“Neither did I.” Mycroft shudders a bit when Sherlock’s palm comes into contact with his bared but hairy chest. 

Sherlock combs through the fur, pressing a kiss against his sternum. He had wanted to be more hard-hearted to Mycroft when he had shown up, but of course – he couldn’t. Time is too precious for such nonsense. And when Mycroft had knelt in front of him, Sherlock knew it had been a lost cause. 

“I always miss you. I couldn’t… when I was dating all those other men. You… I could… always feel your presence in some way or another. It was initially… infuriating. I wanted… wanted so desperately to move on, My. At the end, I just wanted to lose myself and instead of looking for something long-term… I went and looked for a quick fuck or two. I got as far as a kiss, but I couldn’t go through with it.” 

A sort of guilt had downed upon him like a heavy sort of fog, and all he saw of his temporary paramour had been Mycroft. The lips had been all wrong. The man had been handsome enough. Reasonably intelligent. Tall. 

There’s a flash in big brother’s eyes. “Lock.” Mycroft drapes his arms around him. “It’s okay. We had no commitment.” He then smiles wryly. “I ruined everyone else for you, didn’t I?” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply. Mycroft has a big enough ego as it is. While Sherlock had felt guilty, Mycroft must be preening about the fact that after seeing what the world had to offer, Sherlock had preferred him at the end. 

Instead, Sherlock starts undoing his own buttons. In a slow and unhurried fashion. They have the luxury of time. 

His brother’s eyes dart toward the flesh being revealed. There’s hunger written across his face. 

“Did I ever tell you how gorgeous you are?” Mycroft asks reverently as Sherlock lets the cotton of his shirt part. 

A weak nod. Sherlock doesn’t think he is. Especially when it seems that his body appears to be more scar tissue than flesh these days. He had worried that his wounds after his adventure around the world would have been off-putting to his fastidious brother during their encounters, but Mycroft had never given him any reason to think so.

“Oh, Lock.” Mycroft pulls the shirt off. “You are. Because. You are you. Come here.” 

Sherlock goes, letting their bodies touch. Feeling the fur against his bare skin. Mycroft kisses his forehead, letting his fingers drop downward – gently tracing his gunshot scar. 

“I failed to protect you. Instead… you did it all for us. The ploy with that bloody woman. Making Magnussen think that you were her avenger.”

“She had her uses.” 

It hadn’t been Sherlock’s plan to get shot. 

A temporary inconvenience. 

“The fuck she did! I would have destroyed her if you –”

“I know. I know. Hush. It’s all over now.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft says his name as if it was a benediction. He gently takes Sherlock’s hands in his own. It’s evident that Mycroft is having a hard time figuring out what to say. Sherlock sighs when Mycroft’s forehead comes into contact with his own. A tender brush. “Sherlock. I… You…”

“Mycroft… you don’t have to say it all tonight. Just…” Sherlock is feeling something in his eyes again. A hand gently cups his face while a thumb tenderly strokes his cheekbone. “Just…”

“Love you? Of course.” Mycroft’s hands are exceedingly careful as he explores Sherlock’s body. It reminds Sherlock of the last time they had sex. With how deliberate Mycroft had been with every touch. Every kiss. His fingers trace his scars, seeming to read the stories behind them. Stories of love and sacrifice. Mistakes made and learned over the years. “I love you, Lock. All this time… and I only realized it so late in the game.”

“What about… Notley?”

“Willoughby?” Mycroft corrects him. “I… I never loved him, if that’s what you mean –”

“But you…”

“Only paid my respects to a dying man. For a former deity that had given me much for very little. I am sorry I let you think that I had a serious romantic relationship with him –”

“It was sexual.” Sherlock says, not even bothering to mask his jealousy.

“Only the beginning. I told him about us the day before he passed. He said I was an idiot –”

“My idiot.” Sherlock finds himself somewhat smiling, finding himself more capable of putting his old resentment aside. He’s more than happy to tease his brother. “Mummy did say I was the smart one.”

“Maybe when it comes to the things that matter. But yes, I am your idiot. Your caveman. Your –”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock interjects fondly.

“Yes. Your Mycroft. Your… Mycie.” 

Sherlock could hear Mycroft swallow audibly. 

“I am sorry, dearest, that things had to be so hard.”

“Perhaps, it was meant to be. We never do things the easy way. And –”

“I won’t take you for granted ever again, Lock. I can’t lose you. I don’t want to be apart from you anymore. It’s too…” Mycroft closes his eyes tightly. 

“I know.” Sherlock wraps his arms firmly against his brother. “I love you too. You wanted me to. The last few years. To see the truth. But I was too afraid to look. I didn’t want to live in a world where the time we spent together was an illusion. That you didn’t care.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sounds pained. “I am not that good of an actor. Maybe at the beginning… but certainly not later. This… this isn’t an illusion. And… I will spend the rest of my life to prove that to you.” 

Sherlock kisses Mycroft wholeheartedly. All these promises make him feel giddy. Especially from a man who had once said ‘I won’t make you promises I cannot keep’. Mycroft relaxes into his touch, seeming to understand that for the most part all is forgiven. Sherlock’s fingers explore, mapping out the lean musculature of Mycroft’s chest and abdomen hidden under soft flesh that will always be an intrinsic feature. Dedicating some time to finding his nipples underneath the hair. His brother sighs with contentment, seeming satisfied to let Sherlock offer pleasure through this fashion. He follows the treasure trail of dark fur to his brother’s groin – nuzzling the much missed organ through the trousers. 

Mycroft chuckles while moving down to unfasten his belt and shuck off his pants and trousers. “You missed this.”

“Silly brother, I missed you.” 

The sentiment rolls off Sherlock’s tongue all too easily, but he grasps Mycroft’s cock by its base, and gives the head some sloppy (slurpy) kisses while rubbing it against his face. Figures, he did miss his brother’s formidable appendage and he almost chokes with laughter when he recalls sitting next to all those ‘phallic’ looking rock formations earlier in the day. Perhaps somehow he had known that Mycroft would have picked today of all days to show up.

“Easy, easy –” His brother grasps what he could of Sherlock’s hair, pulling him off slightly. “My cock will be at your disposal anytime you wish.” 

“Mpph!” 

Sherlock sticks his tongue out as far as he could instead, licking away at the precum that is beginning to form at his brother’s slit. And really? Will Mycroft let him give a dirty little blowjob out in public? Sherlock loves pushing boundaries. All those wondrous possibilities open up, and Sherlock hums happily with his brother’s cock in his mouth, earning himself a few curses and the tensing of his brother’s thighs – fighting the urge to cum. No doubt Mycroft had been living like a monk the last few months. He plays with his brother’s hairy balls, before sliding a finger behind, rubbing teasingly along the perineum and inching dangerously toward his hole. Would Mycroft actually let him fuck him?

“Another day, Lock.” Mycroft reads his mind. “I promise you shall have me in whatever fashion you’d like. Come up here, dear.”

Sherlock obediently (but reluctantly) leaves his place. His brother pulls him into his lap and their lips meet again; Mycroft tasting himself with the kiss. He sighs when Mycroft wraps Sherlock’s own (much-more) slender cock with his own fist after fumbling with the belt and trousers, and proceeds to stroke.

“You are offering me a hand.” Sherlock smiles. 

“I’ve learned that I like to get my hands dirty on special occasions.” 

“God. Yes.” Sherlock particularly loves the way his brother gives a little twist at the end of his languid pulls. “Do you do legwork too?”

“Sometimes.” Mycroft smiles against Sherlock’s lips. His words are tender. “For a certain someone who is worth it.”

“You… you’ve always come for me. No matter where I was.” Sherlock muses quietly, savouring the slow but sublime build that Mycroft is creating within him. 

Things feel different now. Knowing that for once, they will have more time together. That this wouldn’t be the last time. He slips his fingers into Mycroft’s thinning hair. His brother may no longer be the deity that he had taken pride in being for so many years, but he’s still a distinguished looking man. Their foreheads meet. Mycroft’s blue eyes have a raw intensity to them. Revealing the passion that he had restrained with an iron grip throughout the years. It’s remarkable how human he appears. 

“Of course. Where one goes, the other eventually follows.” Mycroft remarks, bringing back words that Mummy had once used to describe the both of them when they had been unbelievably young. 

Sherlock turns his head slightly, letting their noses slot together once more. They are kissing. There is tongue, as Mycroft slips it into his mouth – carefully but systematically devouring him from within. The pace picks up, as if they are making up for lost time. His brother absorbs Sherlock’s little moans and sighs as he continues to frig him at the now-maddening slow pace. 

“God, My… Please.” Sherlock gasps. 

“Please what, lover mine?” Mycroft pulls slightly away from him, somehow appearing infuriatingly put-together. 

“Let us come together. Mycie… I – I… I need you.”

His face immediately softens at Sherlock’s plea. “Of course. Lock. Anything.” 

At some point Mycroft had found Sherlock’s stash of lubricant, and he slathers it on both their cocks. His large palm easily covers both their pricks. Sherlock almost keens when their silky (hot) flesh comes into contact in this simple manner. It’s startlingly intimate. 

“God.” Sherlock breathes.

“Not anymore.” Mycroft says rather wryly, beginning to pump them both with easy strokes. 

“It feels so good.”

“Yes.” 

“I won’t last.”

“It’s okay, Lock. Neither of us will.” 

His brother’s breathing is beginning to grow slightly ragged.

“I missed you.” _I love you. I love you._

Smooch. Mycroft’s free hand lightly traces one of Sherlock’s cheekbones. Sherlock cannot help but to lean against his brother’s palm, enjoying the multiple points of contact. 

“Oh Lock. Don’t… don’t cry.” 

“Not crying.” Sherlock says firmly, even though he knows there is something suspiciously wet in his eyes. 

“I missed you too. So much. Even when you are gone… I feel that you are with me.” Mycroft manages earnestly. 

“So close, Mycroft!” Sherlock whimpers.

“I know, I know.” Kiss. Mycroft frigs them both a bit faster, also adding a delicious amount of pressure. “Little brother. Look at me.” He says – suddenly sounding a little desperate. His words greatly affected. “God, please. I need to see you. I need to see –” 

And Sherlock does, seeing his own mess of emotions (for once) and even tears mirrored on his brother’s face. It’s everything he had ever wanted. Needed. It’s one thing to know that he is loved and worth staying for, but nothing beats the evidence that lies in front of him. 

Then a wave of something intense – so indescribably pleasurable – sweeps him past the point of no return. It crashes into him – that potent mix of dopamine and oxytocin, and he slumps against his brother, who holds him so tenderly.

***

How content Sherlock looks wrapped in his arms! And how beautifully he had fallen apart, knowing that there will be love to catch him at the end!

These are moments that Mycroft had wished to hang onto forever. Snatches of bliss and love where reality didn’t matter, and all that mattered was the boy (no, man) in his arms. 

He could see the sixteen year-old Lock that he had rejected. The one who ran. The others who had clung so desperately onto him. The one who Mycroft had loved so much, but looked so dispassionately at him at the end. As if frozen. Each one of those ‘Locks’ tear at his heart in different ways, and it’s too late to soothe them. To tell them that things would be okay at the end. To know that a happy ending could be forged with a foundation of difficulty and unhappiness. Nothing could take away the pain that Sherlock had felt over the years. And yet, he knows there is little he could change even if he had the power to go back. Things had happened for a reason. Lessons had to be learned. Consequences, suffered. 

All he could do now is to love his brother. Show him that everything had been worth it to arrive at this point. Let the past fade while exploring this brand new world together. He will go wherever Lock wants them to go. Let people forget who the both of them were, so that when Sherlock’s wanderlust wears off, they could always go back home to London and live an anonymous existence. Sherlock would be okay with that. Mycroft is sure, considering Sherlock hadn’t given any consideration to his old life since Mycroft had arrived. They would both find themselves again. Mycroft couldn’t lose his position anymore. Or his Godhood. And as a last parting gift, Evander had left him enough incendiary information in his personal despatch box back at the Diogenes. If the law ever came for them, Mycroft has enough to make certain important people high up on the food chain quake in their boots and regret every decision that they’ve ever made in their lives. 

“Someday we will go back.” Sherlock says quietly, still resting his head against Mycroft’s bare shoulder. 

“Yes. And oddly enough…” Mycroft sighs, pressing a kiss against his brother’s curls. Neither of them appear to care about the drying cum on their bellies; both are reluctant to leave their cocoon. “I see ourselves next to the sea. In the countryside.”

“Neither of us would have wanted that when we were younger. But it seems appealing… now. I think… I should give Mrs H a ring at some point.”

“I was wondering when you were going to inquire about the life you left behind.” 

“I mean, I didn’t die this time. I just… disappeared quietly off into the night when no one was home. Goldfish do that quite often enough.” Sherlock murmurs dismissively, evidently not interested in the rest that he had left behind. “I think I made the right choice. Like you said… too many memories cluttering about. But… I am glad you are here, dearest.” 

Sherlock says the endearment somewhat shyly, and it’s easily the most adorable thing that Mycroft has ever heard. 

It’s just as well that Sherlock doesn’t seem to be interested in the reactions of the ones he had left behind. 

Dr Watson had been annoyingly persistent. Having tried to barge into what is now Anthea’s office at Whitehall and she hadn’t been pleased whatsoever. The doctor had disbelieved that she had taken over Mycroft’s work. Eventually he had found his way back to Mycroft’s house (which Mycroft hadn’t wanted to invite him in due to bad memories) and insisted that someone go retrieve Sherlock back right this instant because he was likely off getting high. Mycroft had explained rather patiently that Sherlock was perfectly fine, that he hadn’t wanted to be bothered and that he was an adult who was perfectly capable of making his own decisions. Whatever it was that Sherlock had seen in him, Mycroft had no clue. 

Perhaps it is a good thing that Sherlock hadn’t brought up the topic of Watson. It’s obvious that the friendship had worn its course. It’s healthy for friends to come and go. Maybe Sherlock might pick up the threads again when he returns back to London, but life would never be as it was then. 

“You know me. I would always go where you go. Eventually.” 

“You didn’t ask me about the labwork.” Sherlock suddenly remembers, tensing in Mycroft’s arms.

“Shh… relax. I know you didn’t use. I can deduce that –”

“But I still have those cravings sometimes. For the drugs. It’s… psychological.” Sherlock sighs. “I did it to myself, so I can only blame myself.”

Mycroft holds onto him tightly, positively reinforcing his brother’s voluntary sharing. Never again will he allow Sherlock to suffer alone. 

His brother gives him a surprised look, but Mycroft drops another kiss on his brow and says quietly. “I don’t expect us to sweep away all our problems just because we are together. Resentments and other consequences from all these years will crop up on fine sunny days, and there will be days where we will both be furious with the other. And addiction will always be a part of you. I know. I’ve read enough papers on the topic. The sleeping dragon.” 

“Let’s not borrow trouble just yet, Mycroft.”

“I just wanted to reset the terms and conditions –”

“Oh, so you mean we aren’t seeing other people then.”

Mycroft winces. Little brother was still capable of landing firm blows in his state of post-coital bliss. 

“Of course not. And Sherlock… there hasn’t been anyone else for me… in a long time. Almost a decade now. Evander and I… we stopped sharing the bed a long time ago. I am sorry again that I never bothered to clarify –”

“I would have refused to listen.”

“But still, you deserved to know.” 

“Just one more thing, everything applies to you too, Mycroft. This is… a change for you too. An adjustment. If there’s anything I can help you with, please tell me.” 

It’s Mycroft’s turn to be surprised. And oh, the pride he feels is welling up within him. The man his brother had become over the years despite all the strife and suffering. No doubt there will be days where Mycroft misses the thrill of having power in his hands, although from the past few months, Mycroft knows that those days are getting fewer and fewer. Sherrinford had effectively taken away all his desires for running the country. He would have to find new hobbies in his retirement, but that’s a small problem to have. 

“Mew?”

Pockets had come through the crack in the door. He swishes his tail casually and Mycroft reaches downward to give him a perch to leap to. 

“Hello, Pockets.” Sherlock smiles at his kitty. “I see that you like your second parent.”

“Mii… aow!” Pockets seems to agree before settling in between their laps, purring. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an epilogue left.
> 
> Was aiming to finish this story this week, but I forgot how tiring work could be, had ACLS recertification and I got vaccinated against COVID and ended up with a fever for two days so things are predictably delayed. Hope the wait is worth it though!


	8. Epilogue: a slice of life

“God, it’s finally over.”

Sherlock murmurs, allowing himself to collapse into the security of Mycroft’s arms in a discreet corner of the living room. Next to the windows which allow the dying remnants of the May sun in. 

“It’s okay to feel what you are feeling, you know.” Mycroft whispers quietly. “I know we were never particularly close to –”

“There were still happy moments though. I’ve been… revisiting them. How she would hold my hand and take me through her gardens back at…” 

Sherlock closes his eyes, thinking about their original childhood home. There had been happiness then, coloured with the East Wind’s shadow creeping around the periphery. But today… had been the funeral. Mummy had passed rather quickly. The coroner had determined that she had died of a myocardial infarction. A common enough cause of natural death. 

But Sherlock rather suspects that she had died of a broken heart. 

Mycroft and he had jumped on the next plane home as soon as Father had phoned them with a shaky voice. Relatives had come for the quickly arranged service. Made their condolences. Driven Sherlock up the wall with their endless inquiries about when either Mycroft or he would settle down and have children. As if it was a shame to have let Mummy pass without a whiff of a grandchild. 

It had hurt that Mycroft and he had to maintain their distance throughout the tedious day. That he couldn’t hold his Mycie’s hand whenever he had wanted to, although Mycroft had wrapped his arm comfortingly around his during the service where no one had been watching them. That he couldn’t have Pockets with him, as they had decided that Pockets would be happier being spoiled by their landlady back in Taipei rather than endure the prolonged misery of being trapped on a plane. 

“And… it’s surreal, isn’t it? That the last time I saw her was in your office? When she was –”

“Eurus.” Mycroft nods, looking somewhat in agony. Mummy had never really forgiven Mycroft for his deceit. And Sherlock knew that that had gnawed at him. Knowing that he will never have her forgiveness for the matter. “It’s all in the past now, Lockie.”

“I can’t bear this.” Sherlock breaks away from Mycroft’s embrace. He hasn’t felt so close to throwing a tantrum in a long time. “Don’t want to have to sleep apart from you for another night. Don’t want to hide what you mean to me. Hear the gossip that our hateful relatives have to say about us –”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighs, reaching up as if to touch his face, but he drops his arm – thinking better of it. Father could walk by anytime soon, after he’s finished seeing everyone off. “We could go back in a few days, if that’s what you want. After we sort out this mess –”

“I hope you aren’t feeling guilty about… Mummy.” Sherlock abruptly changes the topic, trying to gain back some control of his feelings. “It’s neither of our faults that Eurus was what she was. She passed recently, didn’t she? I noticed that urn in her casket? And you –”

“I am sorry, Lock. Anthea told me a few days ago, and she told our parents the facts when Mummy called to make another appointment to Sherrinford. Suicide, it was –”

“Why didn’t you –”

“Because shortly after, Father called. And I thought that –”

“You would spare me the pain?” Sherlock shakes his head in abject disbelief. He admits. “I am relieved, actually. Knowing that she cannot reach us anymore. What does she even know about what’s important? She who has never loved another? Never cared for anyone beyond herself and her crazy games? She who tried to manipulate me into killing the most essential person in my life just because I cared for him more than her? I went to Sherrinford to see her for Mummy’s sake, figuring that if she didn’t realize the truth then, she probably wouldn’t ever.” 

Of course, then – Sherlock hadn’t known then that getting together on a permanent basis was possible, and that Sherlock had been in enough emotional turmoil that a defeated East Wind wouldn’t have been able to suss out the truth. 

It had been safe to visit then. 

But it wouldn’t have been safe to visit her presently. Had she not killed herself.

Sherlock had grown too comfortable with wearing his heart on his sleeve. Going on dates with his brother out in the open. Holding hands. Kissing. Traveling together as a couple with no one the wiser about their true identities. It is already hard enough to hide the truth from their relatives when all Sherlock wanted to do is to answer the constant natural yearning his body has for his lover. 

Sometimes it’s hard to believe that they’ve been together for so long. Almost five years now. Their anniversary would be coming up soon. 

He would wake and find a smiling Mycroft next to him in bed on most mornings. They might have sex, or not. Pockets would often demand attention and they would lavish it upon him. They would take turns making the first meal of the day, or they would head downstairs to the food stalls for something delicious to eat on lazy beautiful days. They might plan a little adventure, or stay at home. He finds himself smiling at their domestic routines. 

Yet… all that seems so far away at this very moment. 

“Are you… angry?” Mycroft asks cautiously. 

“Not exactly. I just don’t like you hiding things from me.” Sherlock says frankly. “It reminds me too much… of the old days…”

“I am… sorry.” Mycroft sounds rather strained. “Sherlock…” 

“Not here.” 

Sherlock takes a step back, or Father might find both of his sons having a heated snogging session. He hadn’t heard the front door open. It’s a lovely spring day with all the flowers poking out of the grass and as a result Father is holding court outside. But then again, Father is a man of a few (but concise) words. He had always been delighted to let Mummy do all the tongue wagging. (And take on the onus of making most of the decisions.) 

For the first time he wonders… how is Father going to fare? He couldn’t imagine losing Mycie. Especially the version who is with him now. He would rather die. 

“I hate this too. I don’t like being distant from you. And I especially don’t like it when you are distant with me. It reminds me too much of your last day in London all those years back.” Mycroft admits. “In retrospect, I am glad you left. It’s… suffocating to live like this.”

“I know.” Sherlock offers his brother the best smile he could manage under the circumstances. “But this is temporary.” 

“And I am very thankful for that.” Mycroft says firmly. 

“I like the suit.” Sherlock tries to lighten the mood.

Mycroft looks down at what he’s wearing. Black jacket, black waistcoat, crisp white shirt. Black tie with white dots. Matching pocket square. Sherlock hadn’t seen his brother wear a suit (let alone a three-piece) in what seems like forever.

“It’s a little too… black for my personal taste. And… here I thought you found them pretentious.”

Sherlock shakes his head, busy admiring his brother in an obvious fashion. Undressing him mentally. “I just wish I could have my way with you.” 

“Ooh, you nasty boy.” 

“The nastiest.” Sherlock winks. “And you like it that way.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way.” 

And just like that, they are smiling at each other like a pair of loons. Separated by a necessary distance. His brother would be fifty soon. His hair is thinner and greyer, yet Sherlock thinks he looks bloody distinguished. His sexy man. 

Then finally, they could hear Father come in. Sighing, Sherlock puts up a neutral expression while Mycroft busies himself with examining the fireplace. 

“Well, that’s the last of them, boys.” Father walks wearily into the living room, looking more ashen than he had before Mummy had been placed six-feet under. Even his back is a little hunched. “It’s only a shame we couldn’t have a service for your sister too. It’s just us now.” 

There is a wistful tone in his voice. Sherlock could only imagine the kind of impossible fantasies of family togetherness that Father had had. Eurus’ ashes were safely hidden within Mummy’s casket. She had been incinerated before she had been lifted off the island. 

Anthea wasn’t taking any risks. 

Neither Mycroft or himself reply, for they have nothing to offer. Neither of them particularly desire a closer relationship with the other members of their family, especially with sister dear.

“I suppose we ought to have dinner then. Everyone left something behind, and there’s enough food to last weeks. Come, let’s set the table.” 

Wordlessly, Sherlock and Mycroft follow Father out of the living room.

***

Dinner is a quiet affair. 

There’s a strange tense energy in the air as Mycroft slowly (and robotically) brings the forkful of chicken casserole to his lips. He eats without tasting. It’s the evening of Mummy’s funeral and all he could think of is how far away Sherlock seems (even though his lover sits in front of him). Father sits at the head of the table, deeply enmeshed in his own thoughts. It may have been hard to believe back in 2017, but Mycroft already misses their home across the world. The little pocket of happiness that they had spent the years building together. 

It’s a precious thing, Mycroft realizes. All he wants to do is to see his (now-solemn) brother smile. Giggle. And the prospect of the empty bed awaiting him puts him in a gloomy sort of mood. 

Father puts down the fork. 

“I suppose that you two would be off gallivanting around the world again in a few days?”

“Yes.” Mycroft nods. 

There’s no use hiding it.

Their parent sighs, and Mycroft could see the lonely days ahead that Father faces. Mummy had always been the social one. Planning charity events. Dragging Father from one event to the next. 

“Will you two ever return back to England?”

“To be honest, I don’t know.” Mycroft acknowledges. 

“Just wondering… how to dispose of the estate before I… move on. I presume that you two have been traveling together for the last few years?” 

Mycroft is tempted to lie, but he says. “For the most part, yes. We’ve… made up our differences. After Sherrinford.” He chooses his words with care. “Retirement… it surprisingly suits us.” 

“Well. I am glad to hear that. Mummy would have liked to know that you two have made up.” Father stifles a yawn. After a brief moment of quiet, he says. “It’s been a long day.” He gives a reluctant chuckle. “It feels a lot longer than that – actually. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone. We had gone line-dancing the day before they both died. I still remember how pale she looked when she was calling Anthea. As if the life had gone out of her. And then a few hours later I found her collapsed in the bedroom. I tried to bring her back, but to no avail. She was… gone. I think I best be off to bed.”

Sherlock surprisingly reaches over and gives Father’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. 

Father gives a fond look at little brother before standing up. 

“I asked Aunt Esmeralda to tidy and make up your old bed, Mycroft, in addition to mine. Lord knows how stale the bedding was! I am only sorry that I didn’t tidy up before you two showed up. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I thought you two would be more comfortable that way. This is  _ your  _ home as much as mine.”

And with those words, Father leaves the kitchen. Leaving Mycroft to blink dumbly at Sherlock. Is he hearing things? That Father had arranged for one room to be cleaned instead of both their rooms. Does that mean he accepts them as they are? How did he even figure it out? 

“I really don’t think he could have put it plainer without it being awkward, Mycie.”

“No. I don’t think so.” Mycroft stands up to start putting things away. His heart is pounding in his chest. Good god, Father had given him quite a turn with those subtle words. Knowing how taciturn Father is – especially in areas of sentimentality, the topic of their unbrotherly relationship will likely never be mentioned again. This momentous event deserves some sort of celebration. “Do you want dessert, Lockie? I think someone left some apple crumble and a tub of ice cream.”

Sherlock joins him, stacking the dirty plates and cutlery to bring to the sink. “I will just share with you.”

“Of course.” Mycroft leans over to kiss his cheek, and it’s amazing to see how Sherlock’s eyes sparkle at him. “I will go heat it up then.” 

He hums as he goes to find the aforementioned goods, while putting away the leftovers. Sherlock turns on the faucet and starts washing things by hand. It’s a soothing sound. And with every moment of domesticity that passes, Mycroft feels lighter. Happier. Feeling the oppressive atmosphere from the rest of the day lift. 

Sherlock is soon sitting on his lap in the living room, content to accept spoonfuls of hot crumble and cool ice cream made from real vanilla. It’s even enough to overwrite the other sordid memories that had happened the last time they had both been here. The laced Christmas punch. The terrible Watson duo. Mycroft scheming of ways to help clean up after his brother once he had carried out the hit. He had been so worried that he had failed to notice the tampering of the drink he had been indulging in. Lord, he had wished back then that Sherlock had trusted him more, but he knows he didn’t deserve it. 

And what is it that he had said while under the influence?

> Your loss would break my heart.

“Oh, stop brooding.” Sherlock interrupts, taking the spoon and feeding Mycroft with it instead. 

“That’s funny. I would have thought that brooding was  _ your  _ hobby.” 

“That’s all in the past now, Mycie. We’ve won. There’s no need to brood anymore.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft smiles down at him, using his fingers to run through his abundant curls. “Yes, we did. Against all the odds.” 

Sherlock grabs the finished plate and puts it down on the coffee table before reaching over to bring Mycroft’s lips to his. Mycroft sighs happily, kissing his brother back ardently. He needs this. God. What an awful day otherwise! Their kisses are sweet, flavoured with dessert and so much affection that it makes Mycroft’s heart just ache so perfectly so. It amazes him that after so long, everything still feels so fresh. Invigorating. 

“Perhaps, we ought to stay for a week.” Sherlock says quietly. 

“I think we should. Keep Father company. Walk the grounds? Maybe swim in the lake if it gets warm enough? It’s almost June now.” Mycroft places a kiss on Sherlock’s brow. 

“A walk to the beach sounds lovely.”

“Of course, lover mine.” Mycroft grasps one of Sherlock’s hands. “There’s a chippie near there that recently opened, and –”

“I was wondering when you were going to bring that up.” Sherlock grins. “But…”

“In moderation, darling?” Mycroft is rather amused. In his quieter middle age, Sherlock had taken on the task of having them both eat healthier. “We will order a salad too.”

“I know it’s not guaranteed, but I just want you around as long as possible.” Sherlock buries his face against Mycroft’s neck, seemingly embarrassed at his words. 

“It’s not silly to have that sentiment, Lock.” Mycroft feels rather touched by it really. Knowing that his dearest wants him around even when he’s old and grey and falling apart. “It’s lovely that you care about me so much.”

“You ready for bed then?” 

“Yes, Lock. Let’s go. Perhaps you could video-call our landlady and say goodnight to Pockets after a shower. She should be up by now.” 

Hand-in-hand, they head upstairs together, looking forward to the night in one of their childhood beds.

***

***

Gregory Lestrade does a double-take when he sees a familiar figure stroll across the paths of Regent’s Park. Before he could stop himself, he calls out.

“Sherlock!”

God. He hasn’t seen Sherlock in eons! 

Not after he had disappeared all those years ago. After that rather depressing Christmas Party at Baker Street. He had felt terrible and even powerless listening to John’s alcohol-fuelled rant about Sherlock. How bitter and angry the doctor had seemed at that time. 

But is this person even Sherlock? He’s arm in arm with someone else. A taller man. His favourite coat and scarf are nowhere to be found. But nevertheless, the man pulls away from the other, turns around and yes – it is Sherlock in the flesh. 

“George.” Sherlock says quietly, walking over. 

He’s in a pair of faded jeans and a loose (but still expensive) shirt. His curls are unruly and almost reach shoulder-length. Yet, there’s something content about him. Peaceful. He looks different, but it had been the familiar way he had walked that had triggered Greg’s recognition. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Even coppers have days off. But, bloody hell – where have you been? Are you back? Don’t you ever –”

“No, Lestrade. I only came back to visit. My mother… she passed away. Along with my…” Sherlock whispers his grim secret. “Sister. She committed suicide and Mummy – she couldn’t handle it.” 

“Oh, Sherlock. I am so sorry.”

“It’s alright. People are born. People live. People die. It’s what we do. We know that better than anyone, don’t we?” Sherlock offers a wry smile. “I did catch up with Mrs Hudson the other day in a nice tearoom.”

Greg couldn’t help but ask, remembering his sorrow and worry for his old friend and colleague. “Sherlock… why did you leave without a trace? God. How we looked for you! Me. John. Mrs Hudson. And then –”

“I couldn’t stand it anymore. Being in London. I felt trapped. Suffocated. And then when John left with his girlfriend for their vacation, I felt inspired to just… drop everything and go. It was easy…. considering –”

And then Greg feels guilt. 

He remembers John’s surprisingly cruel words over Christmas back then. About Mary’s sacrifice. About why couldn’t Sherlock do x, y and z to make various people happy. About how John had so easily beat his supposed best friend up over the years. How John had ranted about Mycroft’s uselessness when he had tried to coax information out of him to discern Sherlock’s whereabouts. Thinking that if John wasn’t there with Sherlock, Sherlock would be busy fucking up himself and the world around him. 

Which clearly hadn’t been so. 

Even before Sherlock had jumped off that roof, John had taken pride in being his ‘handler’.

Sherlock hadn’t said a word during the party. Greg recalled how Sherlock had held his violin in his hand, looking so lost. The frequent glances at his phone. And at the window. If Greg hadn’t known who Sherlock was, he might have deduced that Sherlock’s problems that evening were related to the matter of love. Now he wonders how Sherlock's day-to-day life with John had been back then? Did Sherlock feel anything for his old flatmate? 

It’s funny how guilt makes people behave. And how clearly Greg could see things now! John had felt so guilty that he had been determined to make Sherlock’s life a ‘success’. Determined to make something ‘meaningful’ out of his wife’s sacrifice. Trying to set Sherlock up with Molly. Trying to get him to go on the cases that had once thrilled the both of them. Trying to recapture the feelings of the old days, when it was clear that Sherlock had wanted none of that. Considering how much Sherlock had sacrificed and endured over the years, Greg doesn’t blame him one bit for wanting to be left alone. And when Sherlock was resistant to John’s attempts to ‘fix’ things, well… Greg could only hope for Sherlock’s sake that John hadn’t gone too far. And maybe Sherlock hadn’t told him about leaving, because he had taken Greg’s lack of action – his silence if you will – as an agreement to John’s behaviour and words during that last Christmas do.

“God, Sherlock. It wasn’t John, was it? That you –”

Sherlock looks horrified. 

Then there’s an audible snort. And Greg is stunned to hear it from the man who had finally turned around. Sherlock’s companion. 

Sherlock’s… brother! Dressed just as casually as Sherlock on this lovely spring day. And in one hand, he carried a large paper bag full of bird seed. He looks nothing like the ‘minor government official’ from years ago. No doubt they were heading to the pond to feed the ducks. And somehow, there’s something oddly endearing about the cerebral Holmeses walking arm-in-arm on a glorious sunny day to go meet some hungry waterfowl. 

“Oh dear lord, no! Lestrade. I never felt that way about John. But… there were times where I regretted agreeing to let him back into Baker Street after it was rebuilt.”

“I should have talked to you. I knew… you were depressed, Sherlock. You didn’t deserve any of that from John. You have the right to choose who to date if you have any inclination to do so. To solve cases if you want, at your own pace and time. To even go have a lark around the world if you so choose! And certainly –” Greg’s mood takes a turn for the dark. “You didn’t deserve any of that violence –”

“Gordon, that’s all in the past. What have you been up to?” A shadow had fallen upon Sherlock’s face at some point, and Greg feels bad about dredging up the past. 

And Greg talks. He had gotten promoted. Married to a nice man who loved to cook. And have his way with a man in a smart copper’s uniform. Greg had gotten burned so many times by women that he figured that it couldn’t hurt any less to explore the other part of his bisexuallity. His daughters had grown and were off on their own in the world now. His own relationship with John had grown distant over the years, for Sherlock had been the common tie that had bound them together. 

And during all this time, Greg can’t help but notice the looks Mycroft gives to his brother. They weren’t impatient. Or condescending, as Greg might have expected. 

They are fond. Full of open affection. 

Suddenly Greg has an image of a Mycroft that had dropped everything and had dashed across the world to chase after his flighty but hurt brother. 

Then at that very moment, Sherlock turns to look at his brother, and Greg sees the matching grins on both of their faces. It is like seeing the sun peek out from between the clouds on a gloomy rainy day. 

Then Greg’s synapses start firing. Oh. That Christmas. Of Sherlock looking expectantly at his cell. Where Mycroft had been noticeably absent… Christ. He must be going crazy, because surely there’s no way the brothers could be…  _ together. _

Couldn’t they? 

“I am glad, Gill – you deserved someone better than your last wife.” Sherlock puts a reassuring hand against Greg’s forearm. “It is nice to see you again.”

“Yes. I am glad – Sherlock – that you are okay.”

Greg finds himself giving Sherlock a hug – just as he had done the last time Sherlock had returned from well… the dead. It’s a little awkward, but Sherlock pats his back and he sees a flash of something in Mycroft’s eyes. 

“You can always email me if you want to talk.” Sherlock says quietly. “I am not off the grid, like I was last time, but I think it’s best if I don’t let anyone know where I am living nowadays.”

“Yeah. Definitely. I will then.” Greg finds himself saying reluctantly, feeling rather sad that Sherlock is about to disappear from his life once more. Lamely he adds. “Have a nice life then.”

Sherlock gives him one last wink before leaving with his brother. 

Greg couldn’t help but to follow them at a distance. Curiosity had gotten a hold of him in the worst sort of way. 

More likely than not, both of them probably know that Greg is nearby. 

But regardless, the brothers are arm-in-arm once more. There is almost a skip to Sherlock’s steps. One of them says something evidently amusing, because they both chuckle – both looking so youthful under the sun. Then there’s Sherlock gesturing towards several birds in a tree, and Mycroft is identifying them – offering interesting little tidbits as he does. The phone comes out when they reach the pond, and Greg’s jaw almost drops when the phone is attached to a selfie-stick. Both the brothers fuss around with the angles and finally after a long minute – they take a few shots. On the last shot, Mycroft turns to his brother – and brushes his lips across Sherlock’s cheek. The tender contact lasts too long to be an accident. Sherlock bats him away playfully and they are both laughing before they proceed to deal with their original objective – which is to feed the ducks. 

Greg shakes his head, feeling like he had intruded for too long. Not his division. 

What mattered at the end is happiness. 

And then, Sherlock’s old words from long ago echo in his head. 

> “Who is it?”
> 
> “An archenemy.”

Love and hate. There is a fine line between those two states. Greg would know with all his bitter experiences. But it seems that the scales have (thankfully) tipped to love. 

As he leaves the area, he finds himself rather privileged that he has gotten to witness the brother Holmeses in their novel natural state. He knows that Sherlock will be well cared for by a man who would never bring a hand to him. 

And Greg will keep this sacred morsel of knowledge to the grave. 

***

***

“There must be some mistake. This isn’t a ticket back to Taipei, Mycie.” 

Sherlock looks at his boarding pass with confusion in the middle of Heathrow’s Terminal 5. He had witnessed Mycroft make the booking for their flights back home just the other day, and now he’s looking at a ticket to Tanzania of all places. It had only been sheer luck that he had noticed, considering that he lets Mycroft handle most of the logistics of their day-to-day life. 

“I don’t make mistakes.” Mycroft says in his old pompous manner. 

Sneaky, sneaky brother! It’s almost their fifth anniversary, and Sherlock had rather suspected that their trip would hold more surprises besides a week-long stay in London at his brother’s house. 

An old excitement seems to well up in him. He’s always wanted to go back to Africa. To the wilderness. He had never voiced this desire, but he has an odd feeling that Mycroft felt the same way. 

“Yes you do, lover mine. But, somehow, I think this is you trying to spoil me again.”

“Maybe.” Mycroft smiles fondly at him as he leads him to their gate. “I was hoping that I could maintain the deception a little longer. But I do hope you aren’t disappointed.”

“Never.” Sherlock sits down in a quiet corner, happy to embark on a new adventure.

“I wanted to take you sooner, but there was the little problem of a –”

“Global pandemic?” Sherlock offers. “I am just glad we can travel again.” 

“Agreed. There are lots of places in the world that – if you are willing – I want to explore with you, Lockie. Even our week in London was enjoyable in a way that I had never experienced before.” Mycroft slings his arm around Sherlock’s back. 

These days, even when people see their documents with their official names on them – the goldfish assume by the matching surnames that they are married, rather than being siblings. Having their relationship blossom in a foreign country has helped facilitate the comfort they have with each other in public with minimal fear that anyone would catch them. 

“My house… actually felt like – a home. I know it’s stupidly cheesy –”

“I think all we are good for these days is being sickeningly sentimental. But, Myc – I enjoyed everything. Even going to the local Tesco’s to buy some groceries. That Wellington Beef we made the other night was pretty good. As good as the meals bought out or had for takeaways.”

“We made some good memories.” Mycroft nods solemnly. “I never thought I would be out pedal-boating down the Serpentine or even just walking with you with my hand in yours in London.” 

Sherlock rests his head against his brother’s shoulder, and Mycroft’s arm curls tighter around him. He knows what Mycroft is talking about. They had spent a lot of time strolling through parks and walking the streets. 

At the beginning, they had been too cautious to hold each other’s hands, just on the off chance that someone would recognize them, but gradually they lost this fear. (Even though Gael would be the one who found out in that fashion.) Sherlock had teared up when they had tramped through Hyde Park, hand-in-hand. It had been such an old fantasy that Sherlock had harboured – to do all these simple things with his Mycie in London. The things that everyday couples took for granted. It had been fun to try out restaurants, tearooms and bakeries that his brother had searched out, and even plan couple-y activities from skating to art classes. Mycie had even set up an old hammock in the backyard and they had watched the sunset while being curled up against each other. 

He had been surprised that Mycroft hadn’t shown any interest to frequent his old haunts – the Diogenes or even Whitehall. When asked, Mycroft had said that it was best to give reigning Gods and Goddesses a generous berth. He had described it akin to how Sherlock had described the behaviour of male lions back in the Zambian savannah to him years ago. Sherlock is skeptical at the idea that Anthea would want to kill Mycroft on sight. She’s rather fond of him, if he recalled correctly.

“That was my old life. My time up in the clouds is over.” Mycroft whispers quietly to him, having deduced Sherlock’s thoughts. He reassures him for the umpteenth time. “My life is with you now. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He then asks. “Do you think your Detective Inspector will keep his discovery to himself?”

Sherlock chuckles. “I think he would. Not because it’s so fantastical that no one would believe him, but rather that he’s always tried to do right by me. I thought that he would be one of the few that would support my atypical choices in life.”

“Did you want to run into… well your old –”

“Flatmate? No, not particularly. It was enough for me to hear from Mrs H that he’s happily engaged and is looking forward to another child. The last few months I had with him… were rather trying. I did regret letting him back at times. At the beginning, it was okay. I thought that we could overcome whatever it was that separated us, but I don’t know – it became obvious that he hasn’t quite forgiven me for Mary’s death. Or for… why I leapt off the roof and disappeared all those years ago. He still doesn’t know the reason why I leapt, and he doesn’t want to know.”

“It’s alright, Lockie.”

“I know. It just hurts how I never got a pass, and… well Mary did for lying.”

“Sex is a powerful tool.”

“I know.” Sherlock grins against Mycroft’s shirt, preferring not to think of his old friend’s conjugal relations. Of course he knows how powerful the innate need to fuck is. Or rather, to love. It’s what had gotten them into this bloody mess in the first place. “I still remember how we fucked in that washroom stall all those years ago. In Miami.”

Mycroft smirks. “I was horny.”

Before Sherlock could make a witty remark back, the announcement for boarding comes over the intercom. 

***

They are standing underneath a canopy of baobab trees in the late afternoon. It’s quiet, but Mycroft could hear the rustles of the breezes blowing through the shrubs and the lush grasses. The movement of small (and harmless) critters carrying out their day-to-day tasks for survival. 

It’s beautifully tranquil. 

Sherlock is looking to and fro for signs of larger life. The adventurer within him has awakened, and Mycroft loves to see that. His brother reaches out for Mycroft’s hand a few minutes later, and wordlessly – they press forward, following a well-worn track through the grasses. 

They come across a crudely made fence, made from tree limbs – fencing off a large open air hut in the middle. There is the sound of heavy footsteps and Mycroft can catch Sherlock's smile when the first elephant comes into view, happily wagging a paintbrush in its trunk as it determinedly tackles a large canvas. They watch the creature work out its artistic designs before the trumpeting of another elephant catches both by surprise. 

The new arrival is much smaller than the first, but it seems to be fixated upon his brother. It waves its trunk cautiously, seeming to sample the air. And then it's Sherlock’s turn to act surprised, when the creature takes one careful step after another. His dearest grins inanely when he recognizes the familiar creature – bigger than when he had seen it last. 

Mycroft had remembered Sherlock telling him the story of the not-so-little baby he had rescued when poachers were doing battle with the rangers who tirelessly patrolled the park. The mother had already been killed, pierced by bullets, but Sherlock had been able to whisk her child away with some help from another ranger in midst of the carnage. Sherlock had looked after the grieving elephant for a week, before a sanctuary could be found to house the orphaned being – and Mycroft knows just how attached Lockie could be with his creatures – big and small. Mycroft hadn’t expected that he would have stumbled across the same sanctuary for orphaned elephants as Sherlock’s had gone to, but then again, there weren’t exactly that many places in the country where orphaned elephants were offered safe harbour and rehabilitation.

He smiles, taking out his new fancy camera to snap a few shots of the elephant wrapping its trunk tightly around Sherlock’s torso, and Sherlock stooping down to hug it. 

From his brother’s lips, Mycroft could read the things that Sherlock says to his old friend. ‘How big you’ve grown!’ ‘How happy and healthy you look!’ They have a few minutes to enjoy this moment, before their guide comes to meet them – to take them on a tour around the area with Lock’s elephant following close behind. Later, when they come across a stream cutting across the vast property – the elephant blows water playfully at Lockie with its trunk. Sherlock wades in to splash his silly reacquainted friend, laughing mirthfully as Mycroft looks on from safe dry ground with a fond smile on his face. 

But, oh – the shine in Sherlock’s eyes that lasts for the rest of the day and night! It is moments like this, where Mycroft can forget about their hardships of old in their entirety. But yet, it is the hard times that lend flavour to the good; knowing the struggles that had allowed them to reach this point in their lives.

It’s going to be hard to top this anniversary present.

***

“How did you know?” Sherlock demands when Mycroft is sitting at the bar, nursing a scotch.

“I was a former God, Lockie.” Mycroft gives him a cryptic smile, not wanting to admit that it was a fortuitous happenstance. He still likes to impress his brother whenever the opportunity rises. “I know things.”

“Fine, keep your secrets.” Sherlock gives him an exasperated look, sipping from his particularly fruity cocktail. He lets his head rest upon Mycroft’s shoulders. And Mycroft reflexively reaches over for his brother, needing to have some sort of physical contact. “But I was happy to meet Mali again. To know that she is content and provided for.”

“I can see that.” Mycroft looks around the dim space, and seeing how deserted it is aside from the bartender cleaning the glassware on the other side – he pecks at Sherlock’s cheek. Homosexuality is very much frowned upon in the country, but in these touristy areas – it’s up to them to exercise judgement. “I am happy that you are happy.”

Sometimes, Mycroft still feels as if his life is a dream. A paradise of sorts that he could have never fathomed. That after doing battle with various factions (sometimes downright hostile) for his Queen and country, he could be allowed to enjoy this. That Sherlock had forgiven everything that he had ever done, and allowed him back into his life in this unbelievable way. That he is permitted to spend the rest of his days coaxing smiles and laughter from his favourite person in the universe. 

God, he still reminisces about that night when Father had acknowledged that he had known about what Sherlock had meant to him. And is to him. 

They had slow and tender sex that evening, both of them needing the reassurance of the other – having had to stifle their usual displays of affection for the other in front of their relations. Mycroft had never catalogued or counted all the touches, looks and words that they used throughout an average day, but suddenly having it cut off between them had been like being struck with an endless bucket of ice-laden water. A taste of what their day-to-day relationship could have been, had they maintained their old paths. How lonely it was! 

They had woken up late the next morning, tangled up with each other – as if their unconscious selves couldn’t bear to part ways. 

Father had smiled at them a little oddly at the breakfast table the next morning, but Mycroft opted not to deduce his thoughts. There are some things in life that he just didn’t need to know. 

It had been too chilly for a swim in the lake outside their house, but Sherlock and he had opted to go for a walk and a picnic that day to survey the old stomping grounds. 

> “It’s strange. For once, I am actually enjoying being back here.” Sherlock had murmured. 
> 
> “I know what you mean, dearest mine. I concur.” 
> 
> Mycroft agreed, remembering all the terrible Christmas parties where everyone pretended (well, except for Sherlock) that everything was postcard perfect. He had cringed, thinking of that awful boy he had brought back home to put a teenaged Sherlock off on his mission to convince him that a relationship would be worthwhile. Sherlock had been exceedingly jealous, and Mycroft had thought nothing of it until he had watched his naked brother wank through the bedroom doorway. It had taken restraint for him not to pull out his own cock and masturbate to his brother’s (beautiful) naked form pleasuring himself. 
> 
> Good God, there have been more unpleasant memories than good in this place, but time would wear them away – and with a little effort, they could easily make (much) better ones to take their place.
> 
> “I like the spring.” Sherlock said. “Seeing the world wake up from a frosty wasteland. Spotting the new birds in the trees. The colours of the first blooms. It reminds me that there’s always hope in the world, regardless of how dismal the outlook appears.” After a brief pause, he wonders. “Will Father be okay?”
> 
> “I think so. He’s a tough man, despite having been run by Mummy for all these decades. I guess we will have to keep up with him more regularly.” Mycroft figured. 
> 
> “I am just thinking… maybe when we are older, we could come back. Split our time between Taiwan and here. I think I would like to write a book about my adventures at some point. And I think it’s best to do it here. In England. Even though…” Sherlock frowned slightly. “That I could never tell the world about the love that is woven through it all… what about here?” 
> 
> They stop walking as Sherlock picks a spot over the lake that offers a lofty view of the woods. Mycroft checks for sand and bugs, before he takes the picnic blanket from Lock and spreads it out on the ground. 
> 
> When they both sat down – Mycroft suggested, as Sherlock fished out the saran-wrapped sandwiches that they had made from the roasted turkey that they had found in the fridge. “I could tell Father that we are interested in hanging onto the ancestral property. Or at least – this piece of it. I know he’s planning on rewriting his will tomorrow in light of recent events.” 
> 
> Mycroft took the thermos of spiced apple cider that one of their aunts had made from the basket, and brought it to his lips – letting its warmth and enticing aroma fill him. 
> 
> “That would be lovely.” Sherlock leaned against Mycroft’s front, and Mycroft was all too content to support him; his legs flanked little brother’s. “I am glad.” He added after biting into a sandwich. “I am glad I get to grow old with you, big brother.” 
> 
> “As do I.” 
> 
> Mycroft replied earnestly, imagining a future where they are older and even greyer. Of a Sherlock curled up against him like he was now. Maybe in front of a roaring fireplace in the countryside, where Pockets (and maybe a dog) kept them company. He wrapped an arm tightly around his beloved’s middle, and blinked back the few tears that had threatened to slip from his eyes.

“Are you ready to head back to our room?” Sherlock asks, just as Mycroft drains the last of his scotch from the glass. “We have a busy day tomorrow. Maybe we can even see a rhino!” 

“Let’s go then.” Mycroft takes Sherlock’s hand after putting down his empty tumbler, and they head back up to their room. 

***

They are kissing in the quiet but dimmed hallway as Sherlock fumbles with the card key, trying to open the door to their room. Fuck, it’s amazing that physical intimacy could be like this. Still be like this. As if they are young hot twenty-somethings lost in the throes of passion. 

Finally, there is the click of the door accepting the key, and they are safe in their own sanctum for the night. Sherlock presses Mycroft against the wall, eagerly tackling shirt buttons and trousers – and soon their clothes find themselves strewn across the ground as they tussle for domination. Mycroft gives way quite easily and soon they are rolling about the comfortably large bed. 

Sherlock still has to pinch himself that he gets his brother like this. That he had finally  _ finally _ gotten what he had so badly wanted. His fingers comb through thick chest fur (his own hairy beast!) and he touches Mycroft’s lips again with his own. Kissing him fiercely. His hands trace familiar edges and curves, while he kisses all that he could reach, climbing down his treasure trail all the way to his sizable cock. But then, before Sherlock could take the member into his mouth, his world flips upside down as Mycroft had turned them both over. Sherlock gasps, as Mycroft starts sucking his own prick with a casual ease. 

It’s always an awesome sight – to see the ex-British Government take as much of his long cock as possible (just short of deep-throating it). There are days where Mycroft would happily do so, but today is not the day. 

No, this is his Mycie getting him nice and hard for a ride. 

Soon, Mycroft is climbing over him, and Sherlock reaches for his shoulders – lifting himself up to kiss him. And then – deliciously slick heat engulfs his prick, as Mycroft guides it to his hidden orifice – already (surprisingly) lubricated. Sherlock rather suspects that Mycroft had prepared himself after his shower, before they had gone down for some last minute drinks. Naughty! 

Seeing Mycroft deliberately spear himself on his cock is another wonder of the world. How his face (and eyes) reflect the glorious mix of pain and pleasure! It’s a surrender, and Sherlock loves nothing more than to see Mycroft capitulate to him. 

Of course, there had been a time where Sherlock would mock such ‘weaknesses’ but such a time has passed. Now it’s precious. He watches as Mycroft’s arse swallows more of his prick, undulating as he does so – his movements almost as hypnotic as his eyes which gaze at him with (fierce) affection. 

He could see all the unspoken ‘I love you’s even though Mycroft says these endearments to him regularly enough. 

They’ve decided they’ve wasted too much time in the past to worry about how stupidly sentimental they’ve become in their retirement. That it is better to express their thoughts and feelings, so that the other would know unequivocally of the lofty position they occupy in each other’s lives and hearts.

“God, you feel so good.” Sherlock utters, reaching over to trace the periphery of Mycroft’s stretched hole, rubbing at the sensitive skin. His brother shivers at the contact, but continues, groaning as he takes the entirety of Sherlock’s length within him. “So tight. So hot. God, brother mine. Ride it!”

And Mycroft does. 

Unlike Sherlock, who would be bouncing all over with Mycroft’s cock up his own arse, his brother fucks himself in a dignified fashion. Sherlock helps him out, stroking his lover’s insides with sure and steady thrusts. Their lips regularly meet, as their breaths grow increasingly stilted. Sherlock listens closely for the minute change in his brother’s hip movement and respirations to monitor how close his lover is to orgasm, so that he could change the angle just so. And if he’s lucky – he can get his brother off without needing to sully his hands. Not that he minds getting his hands dirty, but he enjoys such challenges. 

Sherlock is hugging his brother to him, and Mycroft is panting Sherlock’s name over and over again. Like a mantra. A crescendoing prayer. His hot breath tickling against Sherlock’s face as he climbs closer and closer to the precipice. 

“God, Mycroft…” Sherlock utters, feeling his brother’s movements beginning to fracture. “Oh Mycie… come… come… cum for –” 

He reaches over for his brother’s dick, feeling that he needs just a bit more. He strokes. Once. Twice – 

“Lock!” 

Sherlock finds himself spending his seed when Mycroft bites down against his shoulder. A little too late to muffle his shout of pleasure as he comes. Seeing Mycroft so undone coaxes soft feelings of tenderness to rise to the forefront, and Sherlock gently holds big brother as he loses himself to his own potent neurochemistry. His own cock is still stiff in Mycroft’s arse, but he knows it’s one of his biological idiosyncrasies. That sometimes it would take a minute or two for his cock to soften after ejaculation. And that Mycroft doesn’t mind, rather liking it plugging up his bum – keeping Sherlock’s cum deep within him. 

He hums, as his fingers reach for Mycroft’s hair, running them against his scalp. Over the years, Sherlock has had plenty of time to reflect upon their relationship. With his older and hopefully wiser outlook, he had realized that Mycroft had been young like him too. It’s hard not to think of him as the icy ‘minor government official’, but that fact had been true. The ‘Iceman’ had come from somewhere, after all. 

He had propositioned his brother when Mycroft had just found his calling. And no doubt that his ambitious brother had been alarmed. Frightened. 

He couldn’t blame him. Sherlock had decided. Mycroft had wanted his job with all his heart, and yet he had still cared enough about Sherlock. And had done what he had thought had been the right thing despite the risks to his career. Mycroft might have ascended to God-dom, but Sherlock had been the representation of what was left of his human side. His tether to humanity. 

It is easy to empathize with a much younger Mycroft now, knowing that they would have their time in the sun.

Mycroft rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, clinging tightly onto him. Sherlock can hear his grunt of disappointment when his prick finally starts to grow flaccid. Their spunk and sperm are beginning to fuse them together, but that’s a minor issue. Neither of them wish to physically part. Not even to take a quick shower to prepare for bed. 

But eventually they do, and before heading off to sleep, Sherlock gives in to the strong urge calling him to open the sliding door leading out to the deck. 

They both slip out into the magic of the Zambian night; the moon shining down on them ever so brilliantly. The skies studded with a familiar (yet different) set of stars. 

> "I wish you didn’t have to go.” He said reluctantly.
> 
> “I do too, Lock. You are happy, and I seldom get to see that.” 
> 
> Sherlock had buried his face against his brother’s shoulder at that moment. Mycroft’s arms were strong and held him protectively. 
> 
> “I wish things were different.”

Sherlock offers a wan smile, knowing that his brother is replaying the same bittersweet memory of so-long-ago in his mind. 

There is the warm glow of a lantern, and mosquito repelling incense being released in the air. In the distance, there is the rustle of leaves, the careful footsteps of a creature in the bush nearby, and the splash of water from the nearby watering hole which served as the lifeblood of the savannah. If he focuses, Sherlock could feel the familiar song of the wild that had thrummed within him during those lonely days – as he constantly dreamed a dream that at times seems destined to never come to fruition. 

Bright blue eyes meet his, and Mycroft turns to kiss him. His fingers trailing across Sherlock’s cheek. 

“It’s getting late, darling mine.” His lover says after the passage of minutes, reluctant to break the spell that had been woven around them. 

“I know.”

“We have…”

“Time. Yes.” Sherlock glances again at the sky. The five years had passed in a blink of an eye, even with a life-threatening pandemic that had affected a few of them. But he had been glad that they had been safe and sound in Taiwan, and not in their own plague-ridden country. The years hadn’t always been smooth sailing, but the lessons learned over their course had been so much sweeter. “Yet, at times – I feel like it’s not enough. A lifetime with you wouldn’t be enough.”

“I know.” It is Mycroft who says these words this time. “I know, Lockie.” He lets his forehead brush slowly against Sherlock’s, before resting it against him. He grasps one of Sherlock’s hands with his own. “I don’t know how much time we have together in this world, but know that I love you.” His hand ruffles Sherlock’s curls, fluttering slightly in the wind. “That I love you, always.”

“Put me down!”

Sherlock yelps when Mycroft picks him up another minute later. His lover pulls this crap constantly, and Sherlock has never gotten used to it. It’s useful, he muses ruefully, that his brother could just move him as he felt like it. Particularly when Sherlock is reverting back to some petulant behaviour. Or is deliberately being difficult to vex his sometimes annoying lover. The most irritating part of it is that this is not something Sherlock could do easily back to his brother. But then again, if he had the power to do this to Mycie, he would do so – unrepentantly.

Mycroft simply kisses him again, bringing him back indoors as he does so. Shutting the door quietly with his foot. 

Sherlock envelops his arms tightly around his brother – letting him carry him back to their desecrated bed. His mind whirls with memories – new and old – but with an emphasis on the new. The happiness and laughter they have shared throughout the last five years! The experiences they’ve made! The gentle erosion of the chasm of pain and resentment that had once separated them. 

There is no use moping over variables he could not change.

They could only, after all, live one day at a time. 

And adventure beckons beyond the horizon. 

> Mycroft’s voice pitched lower. “I wish I could be the one to promise you the world. To make you happy. I really, really do. But I won’t make you promises that I cannot keep. We can only live one day at a time.” 
> 
> “One year at a time.”
> 
> “Yes.” Mycroft kissed him then under a different set of stars. Tenderly. “I love you, Sherlock.” 
> 
> “I love you too.” 
> 
> Mycroft only held him tighter.

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I wrote most of this story while I was sick as fucking hell with COVID, and I am glad to have reached the end. Haven't been writing as much this month as I am back working. So close to finishing my degree! 
> 
> Special thanks to LadyGlinda and magic1034 for encouragement and their beta-reading and suggestions over this story which I've grown to be quite fond of, despite my penchant for limited strife between our brothers. I hope you enjoyed this holmescestual take!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feel free to discuss/comment down below! Writers always feed on comments :)


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